AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

AND 

f 

LETTERS 

OF 

ORVILLE    DEWEY. 


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AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


AND 


LETTERS 


OF 


ORVILLE  DEWEY,  D.D. 


lEfitlfB  feg  fjts  ©augbter, 
MARY    E.    DEWEY. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 
1883. 


Copyright,  188S, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


€atnbrilig» : 

PRINTED   BV  JOHN  WILSON   AND  SON. 
UNIVERSITY   PRBSS. 


CONTENTS. 


Paqb 

Inteodtjctobt 7 

Atjtobiogbaphy 11 

Lettees 127 


INTRODUCTORY. 


TT  is  about  twenty-five  years  since,  at  my  earnest 
desire,  my  father  began  to  write  some  of  the 
memories  of  his  own  Hfe,  of  the  friends  whom 
he  loved,  and  of  the  noteworthy  people  he  had 
known ;  and  it  is  by  the  help  of  these  autobio- 
graphical papers,  and  of  selections  from  his  let- 
ters, that  I  am  enabled  to  attempt  a  memoir  of 
him.  I  should  like  to  remind  the  elder  genera- 
tion and  inform  the  younger  of  some  things  in  the 
life  of  a  man  who  was  once  a  foremost  figure  in 
the  world  from  which  he  had  been  so  long  with- 
drawn that  his  death  was  hardly  felt  beyond  the 
circle  of  his  personal  friends.  It  was  like  the  fall 
of  an  aged  tree  in  the  vast  forests  of  his  native 
hills,  when  the  deep  thunder  of  the  crash  is  heard 
afar,  and  a  new  opening  is  made  towards  heaven 
for  those  who  stand  near,  but  when  to  the  general 
eye  there  is  no  change  in  the  rich  woodland  that 
clothes  the  mountain  side. 

But  forty  years  ago,  when  his  church  In  New 
York  was   crowded  morning  and    evening,   and 


8  Intro  dtictory. 

eager  multitudes  hung  upon  his  lips  for  the  very 
bread  of  life,  and  when  he  entered  also  with  spirit 
and  power  into  the  social,  philanthropic,  and  ar- 
tistic life  of  that  great  city ;  or  nearly  sixty  years 
ago,  when  he  carried  to  the  beautiful  town  and 
exquisite  society  of  New  Bedford  an  influx  of 
spiritual  Hfe  and  a  depth  of  religious  thought 
which  worked  like  new  yeast  in  the  well-prepared 
Quaker  mind,  —  then,  had  he  been  taken  away, 
men  would  have  felt  that  a  tower  of  strength  had 
fallen,  and  those  especially,  who  in  his  parish 
visits  had  felt  the  sustaining  comfort  of  his  singu- 
lar tenderness  and  sympathy  in  affliction,  and  of 
his  counsel  in  distress,  would  have  mourned  for 
him  not  only  as  for  a  brother,  but  also  a  chief. 
Now,  almost  all  of  his  own  generation  have 
passed  away.  Here  and  there  one  remains,  to 
listen  with  interest  to  a  fresh  account  of  persons 
and  things  once  familiar;  while  the  story  will 
find  its  chief  audience  among  those  who  remem- 
ber Mr.  Dewey  ^  as  among  the  lights  of  their 
own  youth.     Those  also  who  love  the  study  of 

^  My  father  always  preferred  this  simple  title  to  the  more  for- 
mal "  Dr.,"  and  in  his  own  family  and  among  his  most  intimate 
friends  he  was  Mr.  Dewey  to  the  last.  He  was,  of  course,  grati- 
fied by  the  complimentary  intention  of  Harvard  University  in 
bestowing  the  degree  of  D.D.  upon  him  in  1839,  but  he  never  felt 
that  his  acquisitions  in  learning  entitled  him  to  it. 


Introductory. 


human  nature  may  follow  with  pleasure  the  de- 
velopment of  a  New  England  boy,  with  a  char- 
acter of  great  strength,  simplicity,  reverence,  and 
honesty,  with  scanty  opportunities  for  culture, 
and  heavily  handicapped  in  his  earlier  running 
by  both  poverty  and  Calvinism,  but  possessed 
from  the  first  by  the  love  of  truth  and  knowledge, 
and  by  a  generous  sympathy  which  made  him 
long  to  impart  whatever  treasures  he  obtained. 
To  trace  the  growth  of  such  a  life  to  a  high  point 
of  usefulness  and  power,  to  see  it  unspoiled  by 
honor  and  admiration,  and  to  watch  its  retire- 
ment, under  the  pressure  of  nervous  disease,  from 
active  service,  while  never  losing  its  concern  for 
the  public  good,  its  quickness  of  personal  sym- 
pathy, nor  its  interest  in  the  solution  of  the 
mightiest  problems  of  humanity,  cannot  be  an 
altogether  unprofitable  use  of  time  to  the  reader, 
while  to  the  writer  it  is  a  work  of  consecration. 
He  who  was  at  once  like  a  son  and  brother  to  my 
father,  he  who  should  have  crowned  a  forty-years' 
friendship '  by  the  fulfilment  of  this  pious  task, 
and  who  would  have  done  it  with  a  stronger 
lind  a  steadier  hand  than  mine, — BELLOWS, — was 
called  first  from  that  "  fair  companionship,"  while 
still  in  the  unbroken  exercise  of  the  varied  and  re- 
markable powers  which  made  his  life  one  of  ^ch 


lO  Introductory. 

large  use,  blessing,  and  pleasure  to  the  world. 
None  could  make  his  place  good  to  his  elder 
friend,  whose  approaching  death  was  visibly  has- 
tened by  grief  for  the  loss  of  the  constant  sym- 
pathy and  devotion  which  had  faithfully  cheered 
his  declining  years.  Many  and  beautiful  tributes 
were  laid  upon  my  father's  tomb  by  those  whom 
he  left  here.  Why  should  we  not  hope  that  that 
of  Bellows  was  in  the  form  of  greeting? 

St.  David's,  July,  1883. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


T  WAS  born  in  Sheffield,  Mass.,  on  the  28th 
■*■  of  March,  1794.  My  grandparents,  Stephen 
Dewey  and  Aaron  Root,  were  among  the  early 
settlers  of  the  town,  and  the  houses  they  built  — 
the  one  of  brick,  and  the  other  of  wood  —  still 
stand.  They  came  from  Westfield-,  about  forty 
miles  distant  from  Sheffield,  on  horseback, 
through  the  woods ;  there  were  no  roads  then. 
We  have  always  had  a  tradition  in  our  family 
that  the  male  branch  is  of  Welsh  origin.  When 
I  visited  Wales  in  1832,  I  remember  being  struck 
with  the  resemblance  I  saw  in  the  girls  and  young 
women  about  me  to  my  sisters,  and  I  mentioned 
it  when  writing  home.  On  going  up  to  London, 
I  became  acquainted  with  a  gentleman,  who, 
writing  a  note  one  day  to  a  friend  of  mine  and 
speaking  of  me,  said :  "  I  spell  the  name  after 
the  Welsh  fashion,  —  Dewi ;  I  don't  know  how  he 
spells  it."  On  inquiring  of  this  gentleman, —  and 
he  referred  me  also  to  biographical  dictionaries, 
—  I  found  that  our  name  had  an  origin  of  un- 
suspected dignity,  not  to  say  sanctity,  being  no 
other  than  that  of  Saint  David,  the  patron  saint 


12  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

of  Wales,  which  is  shortened  and  changed  in  the 
speech  of  the  common  people  into  Dewi.^ 

Every  one  tries,  I  suppose,  to  penetrate  as  far 
back  as  he  can  into  his  childhood,  back  towards 
his  infancy,  towards  that  mysterious  and  shadowy 
line  behind  which  lies  his  unremembered  exist- 
ence. Besides  the  usual  life  of  a  child  in  the 
country,  —  running  foot-races  with  my  brother 
Chandler,  building  brick  ovens  to  bake  apples  in 
the  side-hill  opposite  the  house,  and  the  steeds 
of  willow  sticks  cut  there,  —  and  beyond  the  un- 
varying gentleness  of  my  mother  and  the  peremp- 
tory decision  and  playfulness  at  the  same  time 
of  my  father,  —  his  slightest  word  was  enough  to 
hush  the  wildest  tumult  among  us  children,  and 
yet  he  was  usually  gay  and  humorous  in  his 
family,  —  besides  and  beyond  this,  I  remember 
nothing  till  the  first  event  in  my  early  childhood, 
and  that  was  acting  in  a  play.  It  was  performed 
in  the  church,  as  part  of  a  school  exhibition.  The 
stage  was  laid  upon  the  pews,  and  the  audience 
seated  in  the  gallery.  I  must  have  been  about 
five  years  old  then,  and  I  acted  the  part  of  a  little 
son.  I  remember  feeling,  then  and  afterwards, 
very  queer  and  shamefaced  about  my  histrionic 
papa  and  mamma.  It  is  striking  to  observe,  not 
only  how  early,  but  how  powerfully,  imagination 

1  This  was  the  reason  why  Mr.  Dewey  gave  to  the  country  home 
which  he  inherited  from  his  father  the  name  of  "  St.  David's," 
by  which  it  is  known  to  his  family  and  friends.  —  M.  E.  D. 


Atitobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  13 

is  developed  in  our  childhood.  For  some  time 
after,  I  regarded  those  imaginary  parents  as  sus- 
taining a  pecuhar  relation,  not  only  to  me,  but  to 
one  another;  I  thought  they  were  in  love,  if  not 
to  be  married.  But  they  never  were  married,  nor 
ever  thought  of  it,  I  suppose.  All  that  drama 
was  wrought  out  in  the  bosom  of  a  child.  It  is 
worth  noticing,  too,  the  freedom  with  sacred 
things,  of  those  days,  approaching  to  the  old 
fetes  and  mysteries  in  the  church.  We  are  apt 
to  think  of  the  Puritan  times  as  all  rigor  and 
strictness.  And  yet  here,  nearly  sixty  years  ago, 
was  a  play  acted  in  the  meeting-house :  the 
church  turned  into  a  theatre.  And  I  remember 
my  mother's  telling  me  that  when  she  was  a 
girl  her  father  carried  her  on  a  pillion  to  the 
raising  of  a  church  in  Pittsfield ;  and  the  occa- 
sion was  celebrated  by  a  ball  in  the  evening. 
Now,  all  dancing  is  proscribed  by  the  church 
there  as  a  sinful  amusement. 

The  next  thing  that  I  remember,  as  an  event 
in  my  childhood,  was  the  funeral  of  General 
Ashley,  one  of  our  townsmen,  who  had  served  as 
colonel,  I  think,  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution. 
I  was  then  in  my  sixth  year.  It  was  a  military 
funeral ;  and  the  procession,  for  a  long  distance, 
filled  the  wide  street.  The  music,  the  solemn 
march,  the  bier  borne  in  the  midst,  the  crowd !  — 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  whole  world  was  at  a 
funeral.  The  remains  of  Bonaparte  borne  to  the 
Invalides  amidst  the  crowds  of  Paris  could  not. 


14  AutoMography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

I  suppose,  at  a  later  day,  have  affected  me  like 
that  spectacle.  I  do  not  certainly  know  whether 
I  heard  the  sermon  on  the  occasion  by  the  pastor, 
the  Rev.  Ephraim  Judson ;  but  at  any  rate  it  was 
so  represented  to  me  that  it  always  seems  as  if 
I  had  heard  it,  especially  the  apostrophe  to  the 
remains  that  rested  beneath  that  dark  pall  in  the 
aisle.  "  General  Ashley !  "  he  said,  and  repeated, 
"  General  Ashley !  —  he  hears  not." 

To  the  recollections  of  my  childhood  this  old 
pastor  presents  a  very  distinct,  and  I  may  say 
somewhat  portentous,  figure,  —  tall,  large-limbed, 
pale,  ghostly  almost,  with  slow  movement  and 
hollow  tone,  with  eyes  dreamy,  and  kindly,  I 
believe,  but  spectral  to  me, —  coming  into  the 
house  with  a  heavy,  deliberate,  and  solemn  step, 
making  me  feel  as  if  the  very  chairs  and  tables 
were  conscious  of  his  presence  and  did  him  rev- 
erence ;  and  when  he  stretched  out  his  long,  bony 
arm  and  said,  "  Come  here,  child !  "  I  felt  some- 
thing as  if  a  spiritualized  ogre  had  invited  me. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  a  man,  I  believe,  of  a  very 
affectionate  and  tender  nature;  indeed,  I  after- 
wards came  to  think  so ;  but  at  that  time,  and 
up  to  the  age  of  twelve,  it  is  a  strict  truth  that  I 
did  not  regard  Mr.  Judson  as  properly  a  human 
being,  —  as  a  man  at  all.  If  he  had  descended 
from  the  planet  Jupiter,  he  could  not  have  been 
a  bit  more  preternatural  and  strange  to  me.  In- 
deed, I  well  remember  the  occasion  when  the 
idea  of  his  proper  humanity  first  flashed  upon 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  15 

my  mind.  It  was  when  I  saw  him,  one  day,  beat 
the  old  black  horse  he  always  rode,  —  apparently 
in  a  passion  like  any  other  man.  The  old  black 
horse  —  large,  fat,  heavy,  lazy  —  figures  in  my 
mind  almost  as  distinctly  as  its  master;  and  if, 
as  it  came  down  the  street,  its  head  were  turned 
aside  towards  the  school-house,  as  indicating  the 
rider's  intent  to  visit  us,  I  remember  that  the 
school  was  thrown  into  as  much  commotion  as  if 
an  armed  spectre  were  coming  down  the  road. 
Our  awe  of  him  was  extreme ;  yet  he  loved  to  be 
pleasant  with  us.  He  would  say,  —  examining 
the  school  was  always  a  part  of  his  object,  — 
*'  How  much  is  five  times  seven?"  —  "Thirty-five," 
was  the  ready  answer.  "  Well,"  replied  the  old 
man,  "  saying  so  don't  Tnake  it  so ;  "  a  very  signifi- 
cant challenge,  which  we  were  ill  able  to  meet. 
At  the  close  of  his  visit  he  always  gave  an  exact 
and  minute  account  of  the  Crucifixion,  —  I  think 
always,  and  in  the  same  terms.  It  was  a  mere 
appeal  to  physical  sympathy,  awful,  but  not  win- 
ning. When  he  stood  before  us,  and,  lifting  his 
hands  almost  to  the  ceiling,  said,  "  And  so  they 
reared  him  up !  "  it  seemed  as  if  he  described 
the  catastrophe  of  the  world,  not  its  redemption. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Judson  appeared  to  think  that  any- 
thing drawn  from  the  Bible  was  good,  whether  he 
made  any  moral  application  of  it  or  not.  I  have 
heard  him  preach  a  whole  sermon,  giving  the 
most  precise  and  detailed  description  of  the  build- 
ing of  the  Tabernacle,  without  one  word  of  com- 


1 6  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

ment,  inference,  or  instruction.  But  he  was  a 
good  and  kindly  man ;  and  when,  as  I  was  going 
to  college  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  head,  and  gave  me,  with  solemn  form 
and  tender  accent,  his  blessing,  I  felt  awed  and 
impressed,  as  I  imagine  the  Hebrew  youth  may 
have  felt  under  a  patriarch's  benediction. 

With  such  an  example  and  teacher  of  religion 
before  me,  whose  goodness  I  did  not  know,  and 
whose  strangeness  and  preternatural  character 
only  I  felt ;  and  indeed  with  all  the  ideas  I  got  of 
religion,  whether  from  Sunday-keeping  or  cate- 
chising, my  early  impressions  on  that  subject 
could  not  be  happy  or  winning.  I  remember  the 
time  when  I  really  feared  that  if  I  went  out  into 
the  fields  to  walk  on  Sunday,  bears  would  come 
down  from  the  mountain  and  catch  me.  At  a 
later  day,  but  still  in  my  childhood,  I  recollect  a 
book-pedler's  coming  to  our  house,  and  when  he 
opened  his  pack,  that  I  selected  from  a  pile  of 
story-books,  Bunyan's  "  Grace  Abounding  to  the 
Chief  of  Sinners."  Religion  had  a  sort  of  hor- 
rible attraction  for  me,  but  nothing  could  exceed 
its  gloominess.  I  remember  looking  down  from 
the  gallery  at  church  upon  the  celebration  of  the 
Lord's  Supper,  and  pitying  the  persons  engaged  in 
it  more  than  any  people  in  the  world,  —  I  thought 
they  were  so  unhappy.  I  had  heard  of  *'  the  un- 
pardonable sin,"  and  well  do  I  recollect  lying  in 
my  bed — a  mere  child  —  and  having  thoughts 
and  words  injected  into  my  mind,  which  I  im- 


Autobiography  of  Dr,  Dewey.  17 

agined  were  that  sin,  and  shuddering,  and  trem- 
bling, and  saying  aloud,  "  No,  no,  no ;  I  do  not, 
—  I  will  not"  It  is  the  grand  mystery  of  Provi- 
dence that  what  is  divinest  and  most  beautiful 
should  be  suffered  to  be  so  painfully,  and,  as  it 
must  seem  at  first  view,  so  injuriously  miscon- 
strued. But  what  is  universal,  must  be  a  law; 
and  what  is  law,  must  be  right,  —  must  have  good 
reasons  for  it.  And  certainly  so  it  is.  Varying 
as  the  ages  vary,  yet  the  experience  of  the  in- 
dividual is  but  a  picture  of  the  universal  mind,  — 
of  the  world's  mind.  The  steps  are  the  same,  — 
ignorance,  fear,  superstition,  implicit  faith;  then 
doubt,  questioning,  struggling,  long  and  anxious 
reasoning;  then,  at  the  end,  light,  more  or  less, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Can  it,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  be  otherwise?  The  fear  of  death,  for  in- 
stance, which  I  had,  which  all  children  have, —  can 
childhood  escape  it?  Far  onward  and  upward 
must  be  the  victory  over  that  fear.  And  the  fear 
of  God,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  idea  of  religion,  — 
must  it  not,  in  like  manner,  necessarily  be  imper- 
fect? And  are  imperfection  and  error  pecuhar 
to  our  religious  conceptions?  What  mistaken 
ideas  has  the  child  of  a  man,  of  his  parent  when 
correcting  him,  or  of  some  distinguished  stranger  ! 
They  are  scarcely  less  erroneous  than  his  ideas 
of  God.  What  mistaken  notions  of  life,  of  the 
world, —  the  great,  gay,  garish  world,  all  full  of 
cloud-castles,  ships  laden  with  gold,  pleasures 
endless  and  entrancing !     What  mistaken  impres- 


1 8  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

sions  about  nature;  about  the  material  world 
upon  which  childhood  has  alighted,  and  of  which 
it  must  necessarily  be  ignorant;  about  clouds 
and  storms  and  tempests;  and  of  the  heavens 
above,  sun  and  moon  and  stars !  I  remember 
well  when  the  fable  of  the  Happy  Valley  in 
Rasselas  was  a  reality  to  me ;  when  I  thought  the 
sun  rose  and  set  for  us  alone,  and  how  I  pitied 
the  glorious  orb,  as  it  sunk  behind  the  western 
mountain,  to  think  that  it  must  pass  through  a 
sort  of  Hades,  through  a  dark  underworld,  to 
come  up  in  the  east  again.  It  is  a  curious  fact, 
that  the  Egyptians  in  the  morning  of  the  world 
had  the  same  ideas.  Shall  I  blame  Providence 
for  this?  Could  it  be  otherwise?  If  earthly 
things  are  so  mistaken,  is  it  strange  that  heavenly 
things  are?  And  especially  shall  I  call  in  ques- 
tion this  order  of  things,  —  this  order,  whether  of 
men's  or  of  the  world's  progress,  —  when  I  see 
that  it  is  not  only  inevitable,  the  necessary  allot- 
ment for  an  experimenting  and  improving  nature, 
which  is  human  nature,  but  when  I  see  too  that 
each  stage  of  progress  has  its  own  special  ad- 
vantages ;  that  "  everything  is  beautiful  in  its 
time ;  "  that  fears,  superstitions,  errors,  quicken 
imagination  and  restrain  passion  as  truly  as 
doubts,  reasonings,  strugglings,  strengthen  the 
judgment,  mature  the  moral  nature,  and  lead  to  ^ 
Hght? 

I  am  dilating  upon  all  this  too  much,  perhaps. 
I  let  my  pen  run.    Sitting  down  here  in  the  blessed 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  19 

country  home,  with  nothing  else  in  particular  just 
now  to  do,  at  the  age  of  sixty-three,  I  have  time 
and  am  disposed  to  look  back  into  my  early  life 
and  to  reason  upon  it;  and  although  I  have 
nothing  uncommon  to  relate,  yet  what  pertains 
to  me  has  its  own  interest  and  significance,  just  as 
if  no  other  being  had  ever  existed,  and  therefore 
I  set  down  my  experience  and  my  reflections 
simply  as  they  present  themselves  to  me. 

In  casting  back  my  eyes  upon  this  earliest 
period  of  my  life,  there  are  some  things  which  I 
recall,  which  may  amuse  my  grandchildren,  if 
they  should  ever  be  inclined  to  look  over  these 
pages,  and  some  of  which  they  may  find  curious, 
as  things  of  a  bygone  time. 

Children  now  know  nothing  of  what  **  'Lection" 
was  in  those  days,  —  the  annual  period,  that  is, 
when  the  newly  elected  State  government  came 
in.  It  was  in  the  last  week  in  May.  How  eager 
were  we  boys  to  have  the  corn  planted  before 
that  time  !  The  playing  could  not  be  had  till  the 
work  was  done.  The  sports  and  the  entertain- 
ments were  very  simple.  Running  about  the  vil- 
lage street,  hither  and  thither,  without  much  aim ; 
stands  erected  for  the  sale  of  gingerbread  and 
beer,  —  home-made  beer,  concocted  of  sassafras 
roots  and  wintergreen  leaves,  etc. ;  games  of  ball, 
not  base-ball,  as  now  is  the  fashion,  yet  with 
wickets,  —  this  was  about  all,  except  that  at  the 
end  there  was  always  horse-racing. 

Having  witnessed   this   exciting  sport  in    my 


20  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

boyhood,  without  any  suspicion  of  its  being 
wrong,  and  seen  it  abroad  in  later  days,  in  re- 
spectable company,  I  was  led,  very  innocently, 
when  I  was  a  clergyman  in  New  York,  into  what 
was  thought  a  great  misdemeanor.  I  was  invited 
by  some  gentlemen,  and  went  with  them,  to  the 
races  on  Long  Island.  I  met  on  the  boat,  as  we 
were  returning,  a  parishioner  of  mine,  who  ex- 
pressed great  surprise,  and  even  a  kind  of  horror, 
when  I  told  him  what  I  had  been  to  see.  He 
could  not  conceal  that  he  thought  it  very  bad 
that  I  should  have  been  there ;  and  I  suppose  it 
was.  But  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  Some 
person  had  then  recently  heard  me  preach  a  ser- 
mon in  which  I  said,  that,  in  thesis,  I  had  rather 
undertake  to  defend  Infidelity  than  Calvinism. 
In  extreme  anger  thereat,  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
some  newspaper,  in  which,  after  stating  what  I 
had  said,  he  added,  "  And  this  clergyman  was 
lately  seen  at  the  races  !  "  It  went  far  and  wide, 
you  may  be  sure.  I  saw  it  in  newspapers  from 
all  parts  of  the  country ;  yet  some  of  my  friends, 
while  laughing  at  me,  held  it  to  be  only  a  proof 
of  my  simplicity. 

There  were  worse  things  than  sports  in  our 
public  gatherings ;  even  street  fights,  —  pugilistic 
fights,  hand  to  hand.  I  have  seen  men  thus  en- 
gage, and  that  in  bloody  encounter,  knocking  one 
another  down,  and  the  fallen  man  stamped  upon 
by  his  adversary.  The  people  gathered  round, 
not  to  interfere,  but  to  see  them  fight   it  out. 


Atitobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  21 

Such  a  spectacle  has  not  been  witnessed  in  Shef- 
field, I  think,  for  half  a  century. 

But  as  to  sports  and  entertainments  in  general, 
there  were  more  of  them  in  those  days  than  now. 
VVe  had  more  holidays,  more  games  in  the  street, 
—  of  ball-playing,  of  quoits,  of  running,  leaping, 
and  wrestling.  The  militia  musters,  now  done 
away  with,  gave  many  occasions  for  them.  Every 
year  we  had  one  or  two  great  squirrel-hunts, 
ended  by  a  supper,  paid  for  by  the  losing  side, 
that  is,  by  the  side  shooting  the  fewest.  Almost 
every  season  we  had  a  dancing-school.  Singing- 
schools,  too,  there  were  every  winter.  There  was 
also  a  small  band  of  music  in  the.  village,  and 
serenades  were  not  uncommon.  We  boys  used 
to  give  them  on  the  flute  to  our  favorites.  But 
when  the  band  came  to  serenade  us,  I  shall  never 
forget  the  commotion  it  made  in  the  house,  and 
the  delight  we  had  in  it.  We  children  were  im- 
mediately up  in  a  wild  hurry  of  pleasure,  and  my 
father  always  went  out  to  welcome  the  performers, 
and  to  bring  them  into  the  house  and  give  them 
such  entertainment  as  he  could  provide. 

The  school-days  of  my  childhood  I  remember 
with  nothing  but  pleasure.  I  must  have  been 
a  dull  boy,  I  suppose,  in  some  respects,  for  I 
never  got  into  scrapes,  never  played  truant,  and 
was  never,  that  I  can  remember,  punished  for 
anything.  The  instruction  was  simple  enough. 
Special  stress  was  laid  upon  spelling,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  every  one  of  my  fellow- 


22  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

pupils  learned  to  spell  more  correctly  than  some 
gentlemen  and  ladies  do  in  our  days. 

Our  teachers  were  always  men  in  winter  and 
women  in  summer.  I  remember  some  of  the  men 
very  well,  but  one  of  them  especially.  What  pupil 
of  his  could  ever  forget  Asa  Day,  —  the  most 
extraordinary  figure  that  ever  I  saw,  a  perfect 
chunk  of  a  man?  He  could  not  have  been  five 
feet  high,  but  with  thews  and  sinews  to  make 
up  for  the  defect  in  height,  and  a  head  big 
enough  for  a  giant.  He  might  have  sat  for  Scott's 
"  Black  Dwarf; "  yet  he  was  not  ill-looking,  rather 
handsome  in  the  face.  And  I  think  I  never  saw 
a  face  that  could  express  such  energy,  passion, 
and  wrath,  as  his.  Indeed,  his  whole  frame  was 
instinct  with  energy.  I  see  him  now,  as  he 
marched  by  our  house  in  the  early  morning,  with 
quick,  short  step,  to  make  the  school-room  fire ; 
and  a  roaring  one  it  was,  in  a  large  open  fire- 
place; for  he  did  everything  about  the  school. 
In  fact,  he  took  possession  of  school,  school- 
house,  and  district  too,  for  that  matter,  as  if  it 
were  a  military  post ;  with  the  difference,  that  he 
was  to  fight,  not  enemies  without,  but  within,  —  to 
beat  down  insubordination  and  enforce  obedience. 
And  his  anger,  when  roused,  was  the  most  remark- 
able thing.  It  stands  before  me  now,  through  all 
my  life,  as  the  one  picture  of  a  m.an  in  a  fury. 
But  if  he  frightened  us  children,  he  taught  us  too, 
and  that  thoroughly. 

In   general  our   teachers   were  held   in   great 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  23 

reverence  and  affection.  I  remember  especially 
the  pride  with  which  I  once  went  in  a  chaise,  when 
I  was  about  ten,  to  New  Marlborough,  to  fetch  the 
schoolma'am.  No  courtier,  waiting  upon  a  prin- 
cess, could  have  been  prouder  or  more  respect- 
ful than  I  was. 

To  turn,  for  a  moment,  to  a  different  scene,  and 
to  much  humbler  persons,  that  pass  and  repass  in 
the  camera  obscura  of  my  early  recollections.  The 
only  Irishman  that  was  in  Sheffield,  I  think,  in 
those  days,  lived  in  my  father's  family  for  several 
years  as  a  hired  man,  —  Richard ;  I  knew  him  by 
no  other  name  then,  and  recall  him  by  no  other 
now,  —  the  tallest  and  best- formed  "  exile  of 
Erin  "  that  I  have  ever  seen ;  prodigiously  strong, 
yet  always  gentle  in  manner  and  speech  to  us 
children ;  with  the  full  brogue,  and  every  way 
marked  in  my  view,  and  set  apart  from  every  one 
around  him,  —  "a  stranger  in  a  strange  land." 
The  only  thing  besides,  that  I  distinctly  remember 
of  him,  was  the  point  he  made  every  Christmas 
of  getting  in  the  "  Yule-log,"  a  huge  log  which 
he  had  doubtless  been  saving  out  in  chopping 
the  wood-pile,  big  enough  for  a  yoke  of  oxen  to 
draw,  and  which  he  placed  with  a  kind  of  cere- 
mony and  respect  in  the  great  kitchen  fireplace. 
With  our  absurd  New  England  Puritan  ways,  — 
yet  naturally  derived  from  the  times  of  the  Eng- 
lish Commonwealth,  when  any  observance  of 
Christmas  was   made   penal   and   punished  with 


24  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

imprisonment, —  I  am  not  sure  that  we  should 
have  known  anything  of  Christmas,  but  for  Rich- 
ard's Yule-log. 

There  was  anoth_er  class  of  persons  who  were 
frequently  engaged  to  do  day's  work  on  the  farm, 
—  that  of  the  colored  people.  Some  of  them  had 
been  slaves  here  in  Sheffield.  They  were  vir- 
tually emancipated  by  our  State  Bill  of  Rights, 
passed  in  1783.  The  first  of  them  that  sought 
freedom  under  it,  and  the  first,  it  is  said,  that 
obtained  it  in  New  England,  was  a  female  slave  of 
General  Ashley,  and  her  advocate  in  the  case 
was  Mr.  Sedgwick,  afterwards  Judge  Sedgwick, 
who  was  then  a  lawyer  in  Sheffield. 

There  were  several  of  the  men  that  stand 
out  as  pretty  marked  individualities  in  my  mem- 
ory, —  Peter  and  Caesar  and  Will  and  Darby ; 
merry  old  fellows  they  seemed  to  be,  —  I  see  no 
laborers  so  cheerful  and  gay  now,  —  and  very 
faithful  and  efficient  workers.  Peter  and  his  wife, 
Toah  (so  was  she  called),  had  belonged  to  my 
maternal  grandfather,  and  were  much  about  us, 
helping,  or  being  helped,  as  the  case  might  be. 
'They  both  lived  and  died  in  their  own  cottage, 
pleasantly  situated  on  the  bank  of  Skenob  Brook. 
They  tilled  their  own  garden,  raised  their  own 
"  sarse,"  kept  their  own  cow ;  and  I  have  heard 
one  say  that  "  Toah's  garden  had  the  finest  dam- 
ask roses  in  the  world,  and  her  house,  and  all 
around  it,  was  the  pink  of  neatness." 

In  taking  leave  of  my  childhood,  I  must  say 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  25 

that,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  the  ordinary- 
poetic  representations  of  the  happiness  of  that 
period,  as  compared  with  after  hfe,  are  not  true, 
and  I  must  doubt  whether  they  ought  to  be  true. 
I  was  as  happy,  I  suppose,  as  most  children.  I 
had  good  health ;  I  had  companions  and  sports ; 
the  school  was  not  a  hardship  to  me,  —  I  was 
always  eager  for  it;  I  was  never  hardly  dealt 
with  by  anybody ;  I  was  never  once  whipped  in 
my  life,  that  I  can  remember;  but  instead  of 
looking  back  to  childhood  as  the  blissful  period 
of  my  life,  I  find  that  I  have  been  growing  hap- 
pier every  year,  up  to  this  vefy  time.  I  recollect 
in  my  youth  times  of  moodiness  and  melancholy ; 
but  since  I  entered  on  the  threshold  of  manly 
life,  of  married  and  parental  life,  all  these  have 
disappeared.  I  have  had  inward  struggles  enough, 
certainly,  —  struggles  with  doubt,  with  temptation, 
—  sorrows  and  fears  and  strifes  enough;  but  I 
think  I  have  been  gradually,  though  too  slowly, 
gaining  the  victory  over  them.  Truth,  art,  re- 
ligion, —  the  true,  the  beautiful,  the  divine,  —  have 
constantly  risen  clearer  and  brighter  before  me; 
my  family  bonds  have  grown  stronger,  friends 
dearer,  the  world  and  nature  fuller  of  goodness 
and  beauty,  and  I  have  every  day  grown  a  happier 
man. 

To  take  up  again  the  thread  of  my  story,  I 
pass  from  childhood  to  my  youth.  My  winters, 
up  to  the  age  of  about  sixteen,  were  given  to 


26  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

school,  —  the  common  district-school,  —  and  my 
summers,  to  assisting  my  father  on  the  farm ;  after 
that,  for  a  year  or  two,  my  whole  time  was  de- 
voted to  preparing  for  college.  For  this  purpose 
I  went  first,  for  one  year,  to  a  school  taught  in 
Sheffield  by  Mr.  William  H.  Maynard,  afterwards 
an  eminent  lawyer  and  senator  in  the  State  of 
New  York.  He  came  among  us  with  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  a  prodigy  in  knowledge ;  he  was 
regarded  as  a  kind  of  walking  library;  and  this 
reputation,  together  with  his  ceaseless  assiduity 
as  a  teacher,  awakened  among  us  boys  an  extraor- 
dinary ambition.  What  we  learned,  and  how  we 
learned  it,  and  how  we  lost  it,  might  well  be  a 
caution  to  all  other  masters  and  pupils.  Besides 
going  through  Virgil  and  Cicero's  Orations  that 
year,  and  frequent  composition  and  declamation, 
we  were  prepared,  at  the  end  of  it,  for  the  most 
thorough  and  minute  examination  in  grammar,  in 
Blair's  Rhetoric,  in  the  two  large  octavo  volumes 
of  Morse's  Geography, —  every  fact  committed  to 
memory,  every  name  of  country,  city,  mountain, 
river,  every  boundary,  population,  length,  breadth, 
degree  of  latitude,  —  and  we  could  repeat,  word 
for  word,  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 
The  consequence  was,  that  we  dropped  all  that 
load  of  knowledge,  or  rather  burden  upon  the 
memory,  at  the  very  threshold  of  the  school. 
Grammar  I  did  study  to  some  purpose  that  year, 
though  never  before.  I  lost  two  years  of  my 
childhood,  I   think,  upon   that   study,    absurdly 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  27 

regarded  as  teaching  children  to  speak  the  Eng- 
lish language,  instead  of  being  considered  as 
what  it  properly  is,  the  philosophy  of  language, 
a  science  altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  child- 
hood. 

Of  the  persons  and  circumstances  that  influ- 
enced my  culture  and  character  in  youth,  there 
are  some  that  stand  out  very  prominently  in  my 
recollection,  and  require  mention  in  this  account 
of  myself. 

My  father,  first  of  all,  did  all  that  he  could  for 
me.  He  sent  me  to  college  when  he  could  ill 
afford  it.  But,  what  was  more  important  as  an 
influence,  all  along  from  my  childhood  it  was 
evidently  his  highest  desire  and  ambition  for  me 
that  I  should  succeed  in  some  professional  career, 
I  think  that  of  a  lawyer.  I  was  fond  of  reading, 
—  indeed,  spent  most  of  the  evenings  of  my  boy- 
hood in  that  way,  —  and  I  soon  observed  that  he 
was  disposed  to  indulge  me  in  my  favorite  pur- 
suit. He  would  often  send  out  my  brothers,  in- 
stead of  me,  upon  errands  or  "  chores,"  to  save 
me  from  interruption.  What  he  admired  most, 
was  eloquence;  and  I  think  he  did  more  than 
Cicero's  De  Oratore  to  inspire  me  with  a  similar 
feeling.  I  well  remember  his  having  been  to 
Albany  once,  and  having  heard  Hamilton,  and 
the  unbounded  admiration  with  which  he  spoke 
of  him.  I  was  but  ten  years  old  when  Hamilton 
was  stricken  down;  yet  such  was  my  interest  in 


28  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

him,  and  such  my  grief,  that  my  schoolmates 
asked  me,  "What  is  the  matter?"  I  said, 
"General  Hamilton  is  dead."  "But  what  is  it? 
Who  is  it?  "  they  asked.  I  replied  that  he  was  a 
great  orator;  but  I  believe  that  it  was  to  them 
much  as  if  I  had  said  that  the  elephant  in  a  me- 
nagerie had  been  killed.  This  early  enthusiasm  I 
owed  to  my  father.  It  influenced  all  my  after 
thoughts  and  aims,  and  was  an  impulse,  though 
it  may  have  borne  but  little  appropriate  fruit. 

For  books  to  read,  the  old  Sheffield  Library 
was  my  main  resource.  -It  consisted  of  about 
two  hundred  volumes, — books  of  the  good  old 
fashion,  well  printed,  well  bound  in  calf,  and  well 
thumbed  too.  What  a  treasure  was  there  for  me  ! 
I  thought  the  mine  could  never  be  exhausted. 
At  least,  it  contained  all  that  I  wanted  then,  and 
better  reading,  I  think,  than  that  which  gener- 
ally engages  our  youth  nowadays,  —  the  great 
English  classics  in  prose  and  verse,  Addison  and 
Johnson  and  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  histories, 
travels,  and  a  few  novels.  The  most  of  these 
books  I  read,  some  of  them  over  and  over,  often 
by  torchlight,  sitting  on  the  floor  (for  we  had  a 
rich  bed  of  old  pine-knots  on  the  farm)  ;  and  to  this 
library  I  owe  more  than  to  anything  that  helped 
me  in  my  boyhood.  Why  is  it  that  all  its  vol- 
umes are  scattered  now?  What  is  it  that  is 
coming  over  our  New  England  villages,  that 
looks  like  deterioration  and  running  down?  Is 
our  life  going  out  of  us  to  enrich  the  great  West? 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  29 

I  remember  the  time  when  tliere  were  eminent 
men  in  Sheffield.  Judge  Sedgwick  commenced  the 
practice  of  the  law  here ;  and  there  were  Esquire 
Lee,  and  John  W.  Hurlbut,  and  later,  Charles 
Dewey,  and  a  number  of  professional  men  be- 
sides, and  several  others  who  were  not  profes- 
sional, but  readers,  and  could  quote  Johnson  and 
Pope  and  Shakespeare ;  my  father  himself  could 
repeat  the  "  Essay  on  Man,"  and  whole  books  of 
the  "  Paradise  Lost." 

My  model  man  was  Charles  Dewey,  ten  or 
twelve  years  older  than  myself.  What  attracted 
me  to  him  was  a  singular  union  of  strength  and 
tenderness.  Not  that  the  last  was  readily  or  easily 
to  be  seen.  There  was  not  a  bit  of  sunshine  in  it, 
—  no  commonplace  amiableness.  He  wore  no 
smiles  upon  his  face.  His  complexion,  his  brow, 
were  dark ;  his  person,  tall  and  spare ;  his  bow 
had  no  suppleness  in  it,  —  it  even  lacked  some- 
thing of  graceful  courtesy,  —  rather  stiff  and 
stately ;  his  walk  was  a  kind  of  stride,  very  lofty, 
and  did  not  say  "  By  your  leave,"  to  the  world. 
I  remember  that  I  very  absurdly,  though  uncon- 
sciously, tried  to  imitate  it.  His  character  I  do 
not  think  was  a  very  well  disciplined  one  at  that 
time ;  he  was,  I  believe,  "  a  good  hater,"  a  dan- 
gerous opponent,  yet  withal  he  had  immense 
self-command.  On  the  whole,  he  was  generally 
regarded  chiefly  as  a  man  of  penetrative  intellect 
and  sarcastic  wit;  but  under  all  this  I  discerned  a 
spirit  so  true,  so  delicate  and  tender,  so  touched 


30  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

with  a  profound  and  exquisite,  though  concealed, 
sensibility,  that  he  won  my  admiration,  respect, 
and  affection  in  an  equal  degree.  He  removed 
early  in  life  to  practise  the  law  in  Indiana.  We 
seldom  meet ;  but  though  twenty  years  intervene, 
we  meet  as  though  we  had  parted  but  yesterday. 
He  has  been  a  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court,  and, 
I  believe,  the  most  eminent  law  authority  in  his 
adopted  State ;  and  he  would  doubtless  have  been 
sent  to  take  part  in  the  National  Councils,  but  for 
an  uncompromising  sincerity  and  manliness  in 
the  expression  of  his  political  opinions,  little  cal- 
culated to  win  votes. 

And  now  came  the  time  for  a  distinct  step 
forward,  —  a  step  leading  into  future  life. 

It  was  for  some  time  a  question  in  our  family 
whether  I  should  enter  Charles  Dewey's  office  in 
Sheffield  as  a  student  at  law,  or  go  to  college. 
It  was  at  length  decided  that  I  should  go ;  and  as 
Williams  College  was  near  us,  and  my  cousin, 
Chester  Dewey,  was  a  professor  there,  that  was 
the  place  chosen  for  me.  I  entered  the  Sopho- 
more class  in  the  third  term,  and  graduated  in 
1 8 14,  in  my  twenty-first  year. 

Two  events  in  my  college  life  were  of  great 
moment  to  me,  —  the  loss  of  sight,  and  the  gain, 
if  I  may  say  so,  of  insight. 

In  my  Junior  year,  my  eyes,  after  an  attack  of 
measles,  became  so  weak  that  I  could  not  use 
them  more  /than  an  hour  in  a  day,  and  I  was 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  3 1 

obliged  to  rely  mainly  upon  others  for  the  prose- 
cution of  my  studies  during  the  remainder  of  the 
college  course.  I  hardly  know  now  whether  to 
be  glad  or  sorry  for  this  deprivation.  But  for 
this,  I  might  have  been  a  man  of  learning.  I  was 
certainly  very  fond  of  my  studies,  especially  of 
the  mathematics  and  chemistry.  I  mention  it  the 
rather,  because  the  whole  course  and  tendency  of 
my  mind  has  been  in  other  directions.  But  Euclid's 
Geometry  was  the  most  interesting  book  to  me 
in  the  college  course ;  and  next,  Mrs.  B.'s  Chem- 
istry: the  first,  because  the  intensest  thinking  is 
doubtless  always  the  greatest  possible  intellectual 
enjoyment;  and  the  second,  because  it  opened  to 
me  my  first  glance  into  the  wonders  of  nature.  I 
remember  the  trembling  pride  with  which,  one  day 
in  the  Junior  year,  I  took  the  head  of  the  class, 
while  all  the  rest  shrunk  from  it,  to  demonstrate 
some  proposition  in  the  last  book  of  Euclid.  At 
Commencement,  when  my  class  graduated,  the 
highest  part  was  assigned  to  me.  "  Pretty  well 
for  a  blind  boy,"  my  father  said,  when  I  told  him 
of  it;  it  was  all  he  said,  though  I  knew  that 
nothing  in  the  world  could  have  given  him  more 
pleasure.  But  if  it  was  vanity  then,  or  if  it  seem 
such  now  to  mention  it,  I  may  be  pardoned,  per- 
haps, for  it  was  the  end  of  all  vanity,  effort,  or 
pretension  to  be  a  learned  man.  I  remember 
when  I  once  told  Channing  of  this,  and  said  that 
but  for  the  loss  of  sight  I  thought  I  should  have 
devoted  myself  to  the  pursuits  of  learning,  his 


32  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

reply  was,  "  You  were  made  for  something  bet- 
ter." I  do  not  know  how  that  may  be ;  but  I  think 
that  my  deprivation,  which  lasted  for  some  years, 
was  not  altogether  without  benefit  to  myself,  I  was 
thrown  back  upon  my  own  mind,  upon  my  own 
resources,  as  I  should  never  othenvise  have  been. 
I  was  compelled  to  think  —  in  such  measure  as  I 
am  able  —  as  I  should  not  otherwise  have  done. 
I  was  astonished  to  find  how  dependent  I  had 
been  upon  books,  not  only  for  facts,  but  for  the 
very  courses  of  reasoning.  To  sit  down  solitary 
and  silent  for  hours,  and  to  pursue  a  subject 
through  all  the  logical  steps  for  myself,  —  to 
mould  the  matter  in  my  own  mind  without  any 
foreign  aid,  —  was  a  new  task  for  me.  Ravignan, 
the  celebrated  French  preacher,  has  written  a 
little  book  on  the  Jesuit  discipline  and  course  of 
studies,  in  which  he  says  that  the  one  or  two 
years  of  silence  appointed  to  the  pupil  —  abso- 
lute seclusion  from  society  and  from  books  too — 
were  the  most  delightful  and  profitable  years  of 
his  novitiate,  I  think  I  can  understand  how  that 
might  be  true  in  more  ways  than  one.  Madame 
Guyon's  direction  for  prayer  —  to  pause  upon 
each  petition  till  it  is  thoroughly  understood  and 
felt —  had  great  wisdom  in  it.  We  read  too 
much.  For  the  last  thirty  years  I  have  read  as 
much  as  I  pleased,  and  probably  more  than  was 
good  for  me. 

The  disease  in  my  eyes  was  in  the  optic  nerve ; 
there  was  no  external  inflammation.     Under  the 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  33 

best  surgical  advice  I  tried  different  methods  of 
cure,  —  cupping,  leeches,  a  thimbleful  of  lunar 
caustic  on  the  back  of  the  neck,  applied  by 
Dr.  Warren,  of  Boston ;  and  I  remember  spending 
that  very  evening  at  a  party,  while  the  caustic 
was  burning.  So  hopeful  was  I  of  a  cure,,  that 
the  very  pain  was  a  pleasure.  I  said,  "  Bite,  and 
welcome  !  "  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  At  length  I 
met  with  a  person  whose  eyes  had  been  cured  of 
the  same  disease,  and  who  gave  me  this  advice : 
"  Every  evening,  immediately  before  going  to 
bed,  dash  on  water  with  your  hands,  from  your 
wash-bowl,  upon  yqur  closed  eyes ;  let  the  water 
be  of  about  the  temperature  of  spring- water ; 
apply  it  till  there  is  some,  but  not  severe,  pain, 
say  for  half  a  minute  ;  then,  with  a  towel  at  hand, 
wipe  the  eyes  dry  before  opening  them,  and  rub 
the  parts  around  smartly;  after  that  do  not  read, 
or  use  your  eyes  in  any  way,  or  have  a  light  in 
the  room."  I  faithfully  tried  it,  and  in  eight 
months  I  began  to  experience  relief;  in  a  year 
and  a  half  I  could  read  all  day;  in  two  years, 
all  night.  Let  any  one  lose  the  use  of  his  eyes 
for  five  years,  to  know  what  that  means.  After- 
wards I  neglected  the  practice,  and  my  eyes  grew 
weaker ;  resumed  it,  and  they  grew  stronger. 

The  other  event  to  which  I  have  referred  as 
occurring  in  my  college  life  was  of  a  far  different 
character,  and  compared  to  which  all  this  is 
nothing.  It  is  lamentable  that  it  ever  should  be 
an  event  in  any  human  life.    The  sense  of  religion 

3 


34  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

should  be  breathed  into  our  childhood,  into  our 
youth,  along  with  all  its  earliest  and  freshest  in- 
spirations ;  but  it  was  not  so  with  me.  Religion 
had  never  been  a  delight  to  me  before;  now  it 
became  the  highest.  Doubtless  the  change  in  its 
form  partook  of  the  popular  character  usually 
attendant  upon  such  changes  at  the  time,  but  the 
form  was  not  material.  A  new  day  rose  upon 
me.  It  was  as  if  another  sun  had  risen  into  the 
sky;  the  heavens  were  indescribably  brighter, 
and  the  earth  fairer ;  and  that  day  has  gone  on 
brightening  to  the  present  hour,  I  have  known 
the  other  joys  of  life,  I  suppose,  as  much  as  most 
men ;  I  have  known  art  and  beauty,  music  and 
gladness ;  I  have  known  friendship  and  love  and 
family  ties ;  but  it  is  certain  that  till  we  see  GOD 
in  the  world  —  GOD  in  the  bright  and  boundless 
universe  —  we  never  know  the  highest  joy.  It  is 
far  more  than  if  one  were  translated  to  a  world  a 
thousand  times  fairer  than  this ;  for  that  supreme 
and  central  Light  of  Infinite  Love  and  Wisdom, 
shining  over  this  world  and  all  worlds,  alone  can 
show  us  how  noble  and  beautiful,  how  fair  and 
glorious,  they  are.  In  saying  this,  I  do  not  arro- 
gate to  myself  any  unusual  virtue,  nor  forget  my 
defects ;  these  are  not  the  matters  now  in  ques- 
tion. Nor,  least  of  all,  do  I  forget  the  great 
Christian  ministration  of  light  and  wisdom,  of 
hope  and  help  to  us.  But  the  one  thing  that  is 
especially  signalized  in  my  experience  is  this,  — 
the  Infinite  Goodness  and  Loveliness  began  to  be 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  35 

revealed  to  me,  and  this  made  for  me  "  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth." 

The  sense  of  reHgion  comes  to  men  under  dif- 
ferent aspects ;  that  is,  where  it  may  be  said  to 
come ;  where  it  is  not  imbibed,  as  it  ought  to  be, 
in  early  and  unconscious  childhood,  like  knowl- 
edge, like  social  affection,  like  the  common  wis- 
dom of  life.  To  some,  it  comes  as  the  consoler  of 
grief;  to  others,  as  the  deliverer  from  terror  and 
wrath.  To  me  it  came  as  filling  an  infinite  void, 
as  the  supply  of  a  boundless  want,  and  ultimately 
as  the  enhancement  of  all  joy.  I  had  been  some- 
what sad  and  sombre  in  the  secret  moods  of  my 
mind,  —  read  Kirke  White  and  knew  him  by  heart ; 
communed  with  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts,"  and 
with  his  prose  writings  also;  and  with  all  their 
bad  taste  and  false  ideas  of  religion,  I  think  they 
awaken  in  the  soul  the  sense  of  its  greatness 
and  its  need.  I  nursed  all  this,  something  like  a 
moody  secret  in  my  heart,  with  a  kind  of  pride 
and  sadness ;  I  had  indeed  the  full  measure  of 
the  New  England  boy's  reserve  in  my  early  ex- 
perience, and  did  not  care  whether  others  under- 
stood me  or  not.  And  for  a  time  something  of 
all  this  flowed  into  my  religion.  I  was  among 
the  strictest  of  my  religious  companions.  I  was 
constant  to  all  our  religious  exercises,  and  en- 
deavored to  carry  a  sort  of  Carthusian  silence 
into  my  Sundays.  I  even  tried,  absurdly  enough, 
to  pass  that  day  without  a  smile  upon  my  coun- 
tenance.    It  was  on  the  ascetic  side  only  that  I^ 


36  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

had  any  Calvinism  in  my  religious  views,  for  in 
doctrine  I  immediately  took  other  ground.  I 
maintained,  among  my  companions,  that  what- 
ever God  commanded  us  to  do  or  to  be,  that  we 
had  power  to  do  and  be.  And  I  remember  one 
day  rather  impertinently  saying  to  a  somewhat  dis- 
tinguished Calvinistic  Doctor  of  Divinity:  "You 
hold  that  sin  is  an  infinite  evil  ?  "  "Yes."  "And 
that  the  atonement  is  infinite?"  "Yes."  "Sup- 
pose, then,  that  the  first  sinner  comes  to  have  his 
sins  cancelled ;  will  he  not  require  the  whole,  and 
nothing  will  be  left?  "  "  Infinites  !  infinites  !  "  he 
exclaimed ;  "  we  can't  reason  about  infinites  !  " 

In  connection  with  the  religious  ideas  and  im- 
pressions of  which  I  have  been  speaking,  comes 
before  me  one  of  the  most  remarkable  per- 
sons that  I  knew  in  my  youth,  Paul  Dewey,  — 
Uncle  Paul,  we  always  called  him.  He  was  my 
father's  cousin,  and  married  my  mother's  half- 
sister.  His  religion  was  marked  by  strong  dis- 
sent from  the  prevailing  views;  indeed,  he  was 
commonly  regarded  as  an  infidel.  But  I  never 
heard  him  express  any  disbelief  of  Christianity. 
It  was  against  the  Church  construction  of  it, 
against  the  Orthodox  creed,  and  the  ways  and 
methods  of  the  religious  people  about  him,  that  he 
was  accustomed  to  speak,  and  that  in  no  doubtful 
language.  I  was  a  good  deal  with  him  during 
the  year  before  I  went  to  college,  for  he  taught 
me  the  mathematics  ;  and  one  day  he  said  to  me, 
"  Orville,  you  are  going  to  college,  and  you  will 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  37 

be  converted  there."  I  said,  "  Uncle,  how  can 
you  speak  in  that  way  to  me?"  "Nay,"  he  re- 
plied, "  I  am  perfectly  serious ;  you  will  be  con- 
verted, and  when  you  are,  write  to  me  about  it, 
for  I  shall  believe  what  you  say."  When  that 
happened  which  he  predicted,  —  when  something 
had  taken  place  in  my  experience,  of  which 
neither  he,  nor  I  then,  had  any  definite  idea,  —  I 
wrote  to  him  a  long  letter,  in  which  I  frankly  and 
fully  expressed  all  my  feelings,  and  told  him  that 
what  he  had  thus  spoken  of,  whether  idly  or  sin- 
cerely, had  become  to  me  the  most  serious  reality. 
I  learned  from  his  family  afterwards  that  my 
letter  seemed  to  make  a  good  deal  of  impression 
on  him.  He  was  true  to  what  he  had  said ;  he 
did  take  my  testimony  into  account,  and  from 
that  time  after,  spoke  with  less  warmth  and  bit- 
terness upon  such  subjects.  Doubtless  his  large 
sagacity  saw  an  explanation  of  my  experience, 
different  from  that  which  I  then  put  upon  it. 
But  he  saw  that  it  was  at  least  sincere,  and 
respected  it  accordingly.  Certainly  it  did  not 
change  his  views  of  the  religious  ministrations  of 
the  Church.  He  declined  them  when  they  were 
offered  to  him  upon  his  death-bed,  saying  plainly 
that  he  did  not  wish  for  them.  He  was  cross  with 
Church  people  even  then,  and  said  to  one  of  them 
who  called,  as  he  thought  obtrusively,  to  talk  and 
pray  with  him,  "  Sir,  I  desire  neither  your  conver- 
sation nor  your  prayers."  All  this  while,  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  he  was  a  man,  not  only  of 


38  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

great  sense,  but  of  incorruptible  integrity,  of  irre- 
proachable habits,  and  of  great  tenderness  in  his 
domestic  relations.  Whatever  be  the  religious 
judgments  formed  of  such  men,  mine  is  one  of 
mingled  respect  and  regret.  It  reminds  me  of  an 
anecdote  related  of  old  Dr.  Bellamy,  of  Connecti- 
cut, the  celebrated  Hopkinsian  divine,  who  was 
called  into  court  to  testify  concerning  one  of  his 
parishioners,  against  whom  it  was  sought  to  be 
proved  that  he  was  a  very  irascible,  violent,  and 
profane  man  ;  and  as  this  man  was,  in  regard  to 
religion,  what  was  called  in  those  days  "  a  great 
opposer,"  it  was  expected  that  the  Doctor's  testi- 
mony would  be  very  convincing  and  overwhelm- 
ing.     "  Well,"     said    Bellamy,    "  Mr. is    a 

rough,  passionate,  swearing  man,  —  I  am  sorry  to 
say  it;  but  I  do  believe,"  he  said,  hardly  repress- 
ing the  tears  that  started,  "  that  there  is  more 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  his  heart  than 
in  all  my  parish  put  together !  " 

I  may  observe,  in  passing,  that  I  heard,  in  those 
days,  a  great  deal  of  dissent  expressed  from  the 
popular  theology,  beside  my  uncle's.  I  heard 
it  often  from  my  father  and  his  friends.  It  was 
a  frequent  topic  in  our  house,  especially  after  a 
sermon  on  the  decrees,  or  election,  or  the  sinner's 
total  inability  to  comply  with  the  conditions  on 
which  salvation  was  offered  to  him.  The  dislike 
of  these  doctrines  increased  and  spread  here,  till 
it  became  a  revolt  of  nearly  half  the  town,  I  think, 
against  them;  and   thirty  years   ago   a  Liberal 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  39 

society  might  have  been  built  up  in  Sheffield, 
and  ought  to  have  been.  I  very  well  remember 
my  father's  coming  home  from  the  General 
Court,^  of  which  he  was  a  member,  and  express- 
ing the  warmest  admiration  of  the  preaching 
of  Channing.  The  feeling,  however,  of  hostility 
to  the  Orthodox  faith,  in  his  time,  was  limited  to 
a  few;  but  somebody  in  New  York,  who  was 
acquainted  with  it,  —  I  don't  know  who,  —  sent 
up  some  infidel  books.  One  of  them  was  lying 
about  in  our  house,  and  I  remember  seeing  my 
mother  one  day  take  it  and  put  it  into  the  fire. 
It  was  a  pretty  resolute  act  for  one  of  the  gen- 
tlest beings  that  I  ever  knew,  and  decisively 
showed  where  she  stood.  She  did  not  sympa- 
thize with  my  father  in  his  views  of  religion,  but 
meekly,  and  I  well  remember  how  earnestly,  she 
sought  and  humbly  found  the  blessed  way,  such 
as  was  open  to  her  mind. 

As  my  whole  view  of  religion  was  changed  from 
indifference  or  aversion  to  a  profound  interest  in 
it,  a  change  very  naturally  followed  in  my  plan 
for  future  life,  that  is,  in  my  choiceof  a  profession, 
—  very  naturally,  at  least  then;  I  do  not  say  that 
it  would  be  so  now.  I  expected  to  be  a  lawyer ; 
and  I  have  sometimes  been  inclined  to  regret  that 
I  was  not;  for  courts  of  law  always  have  had, 
and  have  still,  a  strange  fascination  for  me,  and  I 
see  now  that  a  lawyer's  or  physician's  life  may  be 

^  The  Massachusetts  Legislative  Assembly  is  so  called.  — 
M.  E.  D. 


40  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

actuated  by  as  lofty  principles,  and  may  be  as 
noble  and  holy,  as  a  clergyman's.  But  I  did  not 
think  so  then.  Then,  I  felt  as  if  the  life  of  a  min- 
ister of  religion  were  the  only  sacred,  the  only 
religious  life ;  as,  in  regard  to  the  special  objects 
with  which  it  is  engaged,  it  is.  But  what  espe- 
cially moved  me  to  embrace  it,  I  will  confess,  was 
a  desire  to  vindicate  for  religion  its  rightful  claim 
and  place  in  the  world, — to  roll  off  the  cloud 
and  darkness  that  lay  upon  it,  and  to  show  it  in 
its  true  light.  It  had  been  dark  to  me;  it  had 
been  something  strange  and  repulsive,  and  even 
unreal,  —  something  conjured  up  by  fear  and 
superstition.  I  came  to  see  it  as  the  divinest,  the 
sublimest,  and  the  loveliest  reality,  and  I  burned 
with  a  desire  that  others  should  see  it.  This 
"  divine  call "  I  had,  whether  or  not  it  answers  to 
what  is  commonly  meant  by  that  phrase,  and  I 
am  glad  that  I  obeyed  it. 

But  now,  how  was  I  to  prosecute  this  design  ? 
how  carry  on  the  preparatory  studies,  when  my 
eyes  did  not  permit  me  to  read  more  than  half 
an  hour  a  day?  I  hesitated  and  turned  aside, 
first  to  teach  a  school  in  Sheffield  for  a  year,  and 
next,  for  another  year,  to  try  a  life  of  business 
in  New  York.  At  length,  however,  my  desire  for 
my  chosen  profession  became  so  irrepressible, 
that  I  determined  to  enter  the  Theological  Semi- 
nary at  Andover,  and  to  pursue  my  studies  as 
well  as  I  could  without  my  eyes,  expecting  after- 
wards to  preach  without  notes. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  41 

At  Andover  I  passed  three  years,  attending  to 
the  course  of  studies  as  well  as  I  was  able.  I 
gave  to  Hebrew  the  half-hour  a  day  that  I  was 
able  to  study ;  with  the  Greek  Testament  I  was 
familiar  enough  to  go  on  with  my  room-mate, 
Cyrus  Byington,^  who  since  has  spent  his  life  as  a 
missionary  among  the  Choctaws ;  and  for  reading 
I  was  indebted  to  his  unvarying  kindness  and  that 
of  my  classmates  and  friends.  Still,  I  was  left, 
some  hours  of  every  day,  to  my  own  meditations. 
But  the  being  obliged  to  think  for  myself  upon 
the  theological  questions  that  daily  came  before 

1  Byington  was  a  young  lawyer,  here  in  Sheffield,  of  good 
abilities  and  prospects,  but  under  a  strong  religious  impression 
he  determined  to  quit  the  law  and  study  theology.  He  was  a 
man  of  ardent  temperament,  whose  thoughts  were  all  feelings 
as  well,  which,  though  less  reliable  as  thought,  were  strong 
impulses,  always  directed,  consecrated  to  good  ends.  A  being 
more  unselfish,  more  ready  to  sacrifice  himself  for  others,  could 
not  easily  be  found.  This  spirit  made  him  a  missionary.  When 
our  class  was  about  leaving  Andover,  the  question  was  solemnly 
propounded  to  us  by  our  teachers,  who  of  us  would  go  to  the 
heathen  ?  I  well  remember  the  pain  and  distress  with  which 
Byington  examined  it, — for  no  person  could  be  more  fondly 
attached  to  his  friends  and  kindred,  —  his  final  decision  to  go, 
and  the  perfect  joy  he  had  in  it  after  his  mind  was  made  up. 
He  went  to  the  Choctaw  and  Cherokee  Indians  in  Florida,  and, 
on  their  removal  to  the  Arkansas  reservation,  accompanied 
them,  and  spent  his  life  among  them.  He  left,  as  the  fruit  of 
one  part  of  his  work,  a  Choctaw  grammar  and  dictionary,  and  a 
yet  better  result  in  the  improved  condition  of  those  people. 
Late  in  life,  on  a  visit  here,  he  told  me  that  the  converted 
Indians  in  Arkansas  owned  farms  around  him,  laboring,  and  liv- 
ing as  respectably  as  white  people  do.  Here  was  that  very 
civilization  said  to  be  impossible  to  the  Indian. 


42  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

the  class,  instead  of  reading  what  others  had 
said  about  them,  seemed  to  me  not  without  its 
advantages. 

Andover  had  its  attractions,  and  not  many  dis- 
tractions. I  Hked  it,  and  I  disliked  it.  I  liked 
it  for  its  opportunities  for  thorough  study,  —  our 
teachers  were  earnest  and  thorough  men,  —  and 
for  the  associates  in  study  that  it  gave  me,  I 
could  say,  "  For  my  companions'  sake,  peace  be 
within  thy  walls."  I  disliked  it  for  its  monastic 
seclusion.  Not  that  this  was  any  fault  of  the 
institution,  but  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
boarded  in  commons ;  the  domestic  element 
dropped  out  of  it,  and  I  was  persuaded,  as  I 
never  had  been  before,  of  the  beneficence  of  that 
ordinance  that  "  sets  the  solitary  in  families."  It 
was  a  fine  situation  in  which  to  get  morbid  and 
dispirited  and  dyspeptic.  On  the  last  point  I 
had  some  experiences  that  were  somewhat  notable 
to  me.  We  were  directed,  of  course,  to  take  a 
great  deal  of  exercise.  We  were  very  zealous 
about  it,  and  sometimes  walked  five  miles  before 
breakfast,  and  that  in  winter  mornings.  It  did 
not  avail  me,  however ;  and  I  got  leave  to  go  out 
and  board  in  a  family,  half  a  mile  distant.  I 
found  that  the  three  miles  a  day  in  going  back 
and  forth,  that  regular  exercise,  was  worth  more 
to  me  than  all  my  previous  and  more  violent 
efforts  in  that  way.  But  I  imagine  that  was  not 
all.  I  had  the  misfortune  to  scald  my  foot,  and 
was  obliged  for  three  weeks  to  sit  perfectly  still. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  43 

When  I  came  back,  Professor  Stuart  said  to  me, 
"Well,  how  is  it  with  your  dyspepsia?"  —  "All 
gone,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  how  have  you 
lived?  "  for  his  dietetics  were  very  strict.  "  Why, 
I  have  eaten  pies  and  pickles,  —  and  pot-hooks 
and  trammels  I  might,  for  any  harm  in  the  mat- 
ter." Here  was  a  wonder,  —  no  exercise  and  no 
regimen,  and  I  was  well !  The  conclusion  I  came 
to,  was,  on  the  whole,  that  cheerfulness  first, 
and  next  regularity,  are  the  best  guards  against 
the  monster  dyspepsia.  And  another  conclusion 
was,  that  exercise  can  no  more  profitably  be  con- 
densed than  food  can. 

As  to  morbid  habits  of  mind,  to  which  isolated 
seminaries  are  exposed,  I  had  also  some  experi- 
ence. What  complaints  of  our  spiritual  dulness 
constantly  arose  among  us !  And  there  was 
other  dulness,  too,  —  physical,  moral,  social.  I 
remember,  at  one  time,  the  whole  college  fell  into 
a  strange  and  unaccountable  depression.  The 
occasion  was  so  serious  that  the  professors  called 
us  together  in  the  chapel  to  remonstrate  with  us ; 
and,  after  talking  it  all  over,  and  giving  us  their 
advice,  one  of  them  said :  "  The  evil  is  so  great, 
and  relief  so  indispensable,  that  I  will  venture  to 
recommend  to  you  a  particular  plan.  Go  to  your 
rooms ;  assemble  some  dozen  or  twenty  in  a 
room ;  form  a  circle,  and  let  the  first  in  it  say 
*  Haw  ! '  and  the  second  *  Haw !  '  and  so  let  it  go 
round ;  and  if  that  does  n't  avail,  let  the  first 
again  say  '  Haw !  haw ! '  and  so  on."     We  tried  it. 


44  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

and  the  result  may  be  imagined.  Very  astonish- 
ing it  must  have  been  to  the  people  without,  but 
the  spell  was  broken. 

But  more  serious  matters  claim  attention  in 
connection  with  Andover.  I  was  to  form  some 
judgment  upon  questions  in  theology.  I  cer- 
tainly was  desirous  of  finding  the  Orthodox  sys- 
tem true.  But  the  more  I  studied  it,  the  more  I 
doubted.  My  doubts  sprung,  first,  from  a  more 
critical  study  of  the  New  Testament.  In  Professor 
Stuart's  crucible,  many  a  solid  text  evaporated, 
and  left  no  residuum  of  proof.  I  was  startled  at 
the  small  number  of  texts,  for  instance,  which  his 
criticism  left  to  support  the  doctrine  of  "  the  per- 
sonality of  the  Holy  Spirit."  I  remember  saying 
to  him  in  the  class  one  day,  when  he  had  removed 
another  prop,  —  another  proof-text :  "  But  this 
is  one  of  the  two  or  three  passages  that  are  left  to 
establish  the  doctrine."  His  answer  was :  "  Is  not 
one  declaration  of  God  enough?  Is  it  not  as 
strong  as  a  thousand?"  It  silenced,  but  it  did 
not  satisfy  me.  In  the  next  place,  I  found  dif- 
ficulties in  our  theology  from  looking  at  it  in 
a  point  of  view  which  I  had  not  before  con- 
sidered, and  that  was  the  difference  between 
words  and  ideas,  —  between  the  terms  we  used 
and  the  actual  conceptions  we  entertained,  or 
between  the  abstract  thesis  and  the  living  sense 
of  the  matter.  Thus  with  regard  to  the  latter 
point,  I  found  that  the  more  I  believed  in  the 
doctrine  of  literally  eternal  punishments,  the  more 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  45 

I  doubted  it.  As  the  living  sense  of  it  pressed 
more  and  more  upon  my  mind,  it  became  too 
awful  to  be  endured ;  it  darkened  the  day  and 
the  very  world  around  me.  At  length  I  could 
not  see  a  happy  company  or  a  gay  multitude 
without  falling  into  a  sadness  that  marred  and 
blighted  everything.  All  joyous  life,  seen  in  the 
light  of  this  doctrine,  seemed  to  me  but  a  horri- 
ble mockery.  It  is  evident  that  John  Forster's 
doubts  sprung  from  the  same  cause.  And  then, 
I  had  been  accustomed  to  use  the  terms  "  Unity  " 
and  "  Trinity  "  as  in  some  vague  sense  compati- 
ble ;  but  when  I  came  to  consider  what  my  actual 
conceptions  were,  I  found  that  the  Three  were 
as  distinct  as  any  three  personalities  of  which  I 
could  conceive.  The  service  which  Dr.  Chan- 
ning's  celebrated  sermon  at  the  ordination  of 
Mr.  Sparks  in  Baltimore  did  me,  was  to  make 
that  clear  to  me.  With  such  doubts,  demand- 
ing further  examination,  I  left  the  Seminary  at 
Andover. 

VVe  parted,  we  classmates,  many  of  us  in  this 
world  never  to  meet  again.  Some  went  to  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  one  to  Ceylon,  one  to  the 
Choctaw  Indians ;  most  remained  at  home,  some 
to  hold  high  positions  in  our  churches  and  col- 
leges,—  Wheeler,  President  of  the  Vermont  Uni- 
versity, a  liberal-minded  and  accomplished  man ; 
Torrey,  Professor  in  the  same,  a  man  of  rare 
scholarship  and  culture ;  Wayland,  President  of 
Brown  University,  in  Rhode  Island,  well  and  widely 


46  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

known;  and  Haddock,  Professor  in  Dartmouth 
College,  New  Hampshire,  and  recently  our  chargi 
d'affaires  in  Portugal.  Haddock,  I  thought,  had 
the  clearest  head  among  us.  Our  relations  were 
very  friendly,  —  though  I  was  a  little  afraid  of 
him,  —  and  with  him  I  first  visited  his  uncle, 
Daniel  Webster,  in  Boston.  I  was  struck  with 
what  Mr.  Webster  said  of  him,  many  years  after, 
considering  that  the  great  statesman  was  speak- 
ing of  a  comparatively  retired  and  studious  man  : 
"  Haddock  I  should  like  to  have  always  with  me ; 
he  is  full  of  knowledge,  —  of  the  knowledge  that 
I  want,  —  pure-minded,  agreeable,  pious,"  —  I  use 
his  very  words,  —  "  and  if  I  could  afford  it,  and  he 
would  consent,  I  would  take  him  to  myself,  to  be 
my  constant  companion." 

I  left  Andover,  then,  in  the  summer  of  18 19, 
and  in  a  state  of  mind  that  did  not  permit  me 
to  be  a  candidate  for  settlement  in  any  of  the 
churches.  I  therefore  accepted  an  invitation  from 
the  American  Education  Society  to  preach  in 
behalf  of  its  objects,  in  the  churches  generally, 
through  the  State,  and  was  thus  occupied  for 
about  eight  months. 

Some  time  in  the  spring,  I  think,  of  1820,  I 
went  down  to  Gloucester  to  preach  in  the  old 
Congregational  Church,  and  was  invited  to  become 
its  pastor.  I  replied  that  I  was  too  unsettled  in 
my  opinions  to  be  settled  anywhere.  The  congre- 
gation then  proposed  to  me  to  come  and  preach 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  47 

a  year  to  them,  postponing  the  decision,  both  on 
their  part  and  mine,  to  the  end  of  it.  I  was  very- 
glad  to  accept  this  proposition,  for  a  year  of  re- 
tired and  quiet  study  was  precisely  what  I  wanted. 
I  spent  that  year  in  examining  the  questions  that 
had  arisen  in  my  mind,  especially  with  regard  to 
the  Trinity.  I  read  Emlyn's  "  Humble  Inquiry," 
Yates  and  Wardlaw,  Channing  and  Worcester,  be- 
sides other  books  ;  but  especially  I  made  the  most 
thorough  examination  I  was  able,  of  all  the  texts 
in  both  Testaments  that  appeared  to  bear  upon 
the  subject.  The  result  was  an  undoubting  rejec- 
tion of  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  The  grounds 
for  this,  and  other  modifications  of  theological 
opinion,  I  need  not  give  here ;  they  are  sufficiently 
stated  in  what  I  have  written  and  published. 

And  here  let  me  say  that,  although  I  had  my 
anxieties,  I  had  none  about  my  personal  hold 
upon  heart-sustaining  truth.  It  was  emphatically 
a  year  of  prayer,  —  if  I  may  without  presumption 
or  indelicacy  say  so.  Humbly  and  earnestly  I 
sought  to  the  God  of  wisdom  and  light  to  guide 
me;  and  I  never  felt  for  a  moment  that  I  was 
perilling  my  salvation.  I  had  a  foundation  of  re- 
pose, stronger  than  mere  theology  can  give,  deep 
and  sure  beneath  me.  I  had  indeed  my  anxieties. 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  putting  in  peril  all  my  worldly 
welfare.  All  the  props  which  a  man  builds  up 
around  him  in  his  early  studies,  all  the  props 
of  church  relationship  and  religious  friendship, 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  falling  away,  and  I  was 


48  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

about  to  take  my  stand  on  the  threshold  of  Hfe, 
alone,  unsupported,  and  unfriended. 

I  soon  had  practical  demonstration  of  this,  not 
only  in  the  coldness  and  the  withdrawal  of  friends, 

—  all  natural  enough,  I  suppose,  and  conscien- 
tious, no  doubt,  —  but  in  the  summons  of  the 
Presbytery  of  the  city  of  New  York,  from  which 
I  had  taken  out  my  license  to  preach,  to  appear 
before  it  and  answer  to  the  charge  of  heresy.  The 
summons  was  made  in  terms  at  war,  I  thought, 
with  Christian  liberty,  and  I  refused  to  obey  it 
The  terms  may  have  been  in  consonance  with  the 
Presbyterian  discipline,  and  perhaps  I  ought  not 
to  have  refused.  What  I  felt  was,  —  and  this,  sub- 
stantially, I  believe,  was  what  I  said, — that,  if  "the 
Presbytery  propose  to  examine  me  simply  to 
ascertain  whether  my  opinions  admit  of  my  stand- 
ing in  the  Presbyterian  Church,  I  have  no  objec- 
tion ;  I  neither  expect  nor  wish  to  remain  with  it ; 
but  it  appears  to  me  to  assume  a  right  and  author- 
ity over  my  opinions  to  which  I  cannot  submit." 

At  the  end  of  the  year  passed  in  Gloucester,  it 
appeared  that  the  congregation  was  about  equally 
divided  on  the  question  of  retaining  me  as  pastor ; 
at  any  rate,  the  circumstances  did  not  permit  me 
to  think  of  it,  and  I  went  up  to  Boston  to  assist 
Dr.  Channing  in  his  duties  as  pastor  of  the 
Federal  Street  Church. 

But  I  must  not  pass  over,  yet  cannot  comment 
upon,  the  great  event  of  my  year  at  Gloucester, 

—  the   greatest  and    happiest  of  my  life,  —  my 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  49 

marriage.^  It  took  place  in  Boston,  on  the  26th 
day  of  December,  1820,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Jarvis  of- 
ficiating as  clergyman,  my  wife's  family  being 
then  in  attendance  upon  his  church.  As  in  the 
annals  of  nations  it  is  commonly  said  that,  while 
calamities  and  disasters  crowd  the  page,  the  happy 
seasons  are  passed  over  in  silence  and  have  no 
record,  so  let  it  be  here. 

My  going  up  to  Boston,  to  be  acquainted  with 
Channing,  and  to  preach  in  his  church,  excited 
in  me  no  small  expectation  and  anxiety.  I  ap- 
proached both  the  church  and  the  man  with 
something  of  trembling.  Of  Channing,  of  his 
character,  of  his  conversation,  and  the  great  im- 
pression it  made  upon  me,  as  upon  everybody 
that  approached  him,  I  have  already  publicly 
spoken,  in  a  sermon  which  I  delivered  on  my  re- 
turn from  Europe  after  his  death,^  and  in  a  letter 
to  be  inserted  in  Dr.  Sprague's  "Annals  of  the 
American  Pulpit."  In  entering  the  pulpit  of  Dr. 
Channing,  as  his  assistant  for  a  season,  I  felt  that 
I  was  committing  myself  to  an  altogether  new 
ordeal.  I  had  been  educated  in  the  Orthodox 
Church ;  I  knew  little  or  nothing  about  the  style 
and  way  of  preaching  in  the  Unitarian  churches ; 
I    knew  only  the    pre-eminent   place  which  Dr. 

1  To  Louisa  Farnham,  daughter  of  William  Farnham,  of 
Boston.  —  M.  E.  D. 

2  This  sermon,  a  noble,  tender,  and  discriminating  tribute  to 
Dr.  Channing,  was  reprinted  in  1881,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Channing  Centennial  Celebration  at  Newport,  R.  I.  —  M.  E.  D. 

4 


50  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

Channing  occupied,  both  as  writer  and  preacher, 
and  I  naturally  felt  some  anxiety  about  my  re- 
ception. I  will  only  say  that  it  was  kind  beyond 
my  expectation.  After  some  months  Dr.  Chan- 
ning went  abroad,  and  I  occupied  his  pulpit  till 
he  returned.  In  all,  I  was  in  his  pulpit  about  two 
years.  On  my  taking  leave  of  it,  the  congrega- 
tion presented  me  with  a  thousand  dollars  to  buy 
a  library.    It  was  a  most  timely  and  welcome  gift. 

During  my  residence  in  Boston,  I  made  my  first 
appearance,  but  anonymously,  in  print,  in  an 
essay  entitled  "  Hints  to  Unitarians."  How  ready 
this  body  of  Christians  has  always  been  to  accept 
sincere  and  honest  criticism,  was  evinced  by  the 
reception  of  my  adventurous  essay.  My  gratifi- 
cation, it  may  be  believed,  was  not  small  on  learn- 
ing that  it  had  been  quoted  with  approbation  in 
the  English  Unitarian  pulpits  ;  and  Miss  Martineau 
told  me,  when  she  was  in  this  country,  —  then 
learning  that  I  was  the  author,  —  that  she,  with 
a  friend  of  hers,  had  caused  it  to  be  printed  as  a 
tract  for  circulation.  She  would  say  now  that  it 
was  in  her  nonage  that  she  did  it 

The  most  remarkable  man,  next  to  Channing, 
that  I  became  acquainted  with  during  this  resi- 
dence of  two  years  in  Boston,  was  Jonathan 
Phillips.  He  was  a  merchant  by  profession,  but 
inherited  a  large  fortune,  and  was  never,  that  I 
know,  engaged  much  in  active  business.  He  led, 
when  I  knew  him,  a  contemplative  life,  was  an 
assiduous  reader,  and  a  deeper  thinker.     He  had 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  51 

a  splendid  library,  and  spent  much  of  his  time 
among  his  books.  If  he  had  had  the  proper 
training  for  it,  I  always  thought  he  would  have 
made  a  great  metaphysician.  His  conversation 
was  often  profound,  and  always  original,  —  always 
drawn  from  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  and 
was  always  occupied  with  great  philosophical  and 
religious  themes.  It  was  born  of  struggle,  more, 
I  think,  than  any  man's  I  ever  talked  with.  For 
he  had  a  great  moral  nature,  and  great  difficulties 
within,  arising  partly  from  his  religious  education, 
but  yet  more  from  the  contact  with  actual  life  of 
a  very  sensitive  temperament  and  much  ill  health. 
He  had  worked  his  way  out  independently  from 
the  former,  and  stood  on  firm  ground ;  and  when 
some  of  his  family  friends  charged  Channing  with 
having  drawn  him  away  from  Orthodoxy,  Chan- 
ning replied,  "No;  he  has  influenced  me  more 
than  I  have  influenced  him." 

In  London,  in  1833,  I  met  Mr.  Phillips  with 
Dr.  Tuckerman,  well  known  as  the  pioneer  in  the 
"  Ministry  to  the  Poor  in  Cities,"  about  to  take 
the  tour  on  the  Continent.  He  invited  me  to  join 
them,  and  we  travelled  together  on  the  Rhine  and 
in  Switzerland.  It  was  on  this  journey  that  I 
became  acquainted  with  the  sad  effect  produced 
upon  him  by  great  and  depressing  indisposition. 
His  case  was  very  singular,  and  explains  things  in 
him  that  surprised  his  acquaintances  very  much, 
and,  in  fact,  did  him  much  wrong  with  them.  It 
was  a  scrofulous  condition  of  the  stomach,  and 


52  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

when  developed  by  taking  cold,  it  was  something 
dreadful  to  hear  him  describe.  The  effect  was  to 
make  entirely  another  man  of  him.  He  who  was 
affluent  in  means  and  disposition  became  suddenly 
not  only  depressed  and  melancholy,  but  anxious 
about  expenses,  sharp  with  the  courier  upon  that 
point,  and  not  at  all  agreeable  as  a  travelling  com- 
panion. But  when  the  fit  passed  off,  which  seemed 
for  the  time  to  be  a  kind  of  insanity,  his  spirits 
rose,  and  his  released  faculties  burst  out  in  actual 
splendor.  He  became  gay;  he  enjoyed  every- 
thing, and  especially  the  scenery  around  him.  I 
never  knew  before  that  his  aesthetic  nature  was 
so  fine.  He  said  so  many  admirable  things  while 
we  were  going  over  Switzerland,  that  I  was  sorry 
afterwards  that  I  had  not  noted  them  down  at  the 
time,  and  written  a  sheet  or  two  of  Phillipsiana. 
His  countenance  changed  as  much  as  his  conver- 
sation, and  its  expression  became  actually  beauti- 
ful. There  was  a  miniature  likeness  taken  of  him 
in  London.  I  went  to  see  it ;  and  when  I  expressed 
to  the  artist  my  warm  approval  of  it,  he  said :  "  I 
am  glad  to  have  you  say  that ;  for  I  wanted  to 
draw  out  all  the  sweetness  of  that  man's  face."^ 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  in  Dr. 
Channing's  congregation  was  Josiah  Quincy,  who, 
during  his  life,  occupied  high  positions  in  the 
country,  and  of  a  very   dissimilar   character, — 

^  The  point  in  this  is  that  Mr.  Phillips'  features  were  of  sin- 
gular and  almost  repellent  homeliness  till  irradiated  by  thought 
or  emotion.  —  M.  E.  D. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  53 

Member  of  Congress,  Mayor  of  Boston,  and 
President  of  Harvard  University,  —  all  of  which 
posts  he  filled  with  credit  and  ability;  always 
conscientious,  energetic,  devoted  to  his  office, 
high-toned,  and  disinterested.  He  was  a  model 
of  pure  and  unselfish  citizenship,  and  deserves  for 
that  a  statue  in  Boston. 

When  Mr.  Quincy  was  a  very  old  man,  I  asked 
him  one  day  how  he  had  come  to  live  so  long,  and 
in  such  health  and  vigor.  He  answered :  "  For 
forty  years  I  have  taken  no  wine ;  and  every 
morning,  before  dressing  myself,  I  have  spent  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  gymnastic  exercises."  I 
adopted  the  practice,  and  have  found  it  of  great 
benefit,  both  as  exercise,  and  inuring  against  colds. 
It  is  really  as  much  exercise  as  a  mile  or  two 
of  walking.  President  Felton  said  :  "  After  that,  I 
can  let  the  daily  exercise  take  care  of  itself,  with- 
out going  doggedly  about  it."  I  find  that  a  good 
many  studious  men  are  doing  the  same  thing.  I 
asked  Bryant  how  much  time  he  gave,  and  he 
said,  "  Three  quarters  of  an  hour."  After  that, 
at  least  in  his  summer  home,  he  is  upon  his  feet 
almost  as  much  as  a  cat,  and  about  as  nimbly. 
With  his  thin  and  wiry  frame,  and  simple  habits, 
he  is  likely  to  live  to  a  greater  age  than  anybody 
I  know.^ 

1  Mr.  Bryant  and  my  father  were  about  of  an  age.  They  had 
known  each  other  almost  from  boyhood,  and  their  friendship  had 
matured  with  time.  The  sudden  death  of  the  poet  in  1878,  from 
causes  that  seemed  almost  accidental,  was  a  great  and  unexpected 
blow  to  the  survivor,  then  himself  in  feeble  health.  —  M.  E.  D. 


54  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

I  shall  add  a  word  about  the  healthfulness  of 
these  exercises,  since  it  is  partly  my  design  in 
this  sketch  to  give  the  fruits  of  my  experience. 
It  is  true  one  cannot  argue  for  everybody  from 
his  own  case.  Nevertheless,  I  am  persuaded  that 
this  morning  exercise  and  the  inuring  would 
greatly  promote  the  general  health.  "  Catching 
cold  "  is  a  serious  item  in  the  lives  of  many  peo- 
ple. One,  two,  or  three  months  of  every  year 
they  have  a  cold.  For  thirty  years  I  have  bathed 
in  cold  water  and  taken  the  air-bath  every  morn- 
ing ;  and  in  all  that  time,  I  think,  I  have  had  but 
three  colds,  and  I  know  where  and  how  I  got 
these,  and  that  they  might  have  been  avoided. 

But  I  have  wandered  far  from  my  ground,  — 
Boston,  and  my  first  residence  there.  I  was 
Dr.  Channing's  guest  for  the  first  month  or  two, 
and  then  and  afterwards  knew  all  his  family,  con- 
sisting of  three  brothers  and  two  sisters.  They 
were  not  people  of  wealth  or  show,  but  some- 
thing much  better.  Henry  lived  in  retirement  in 
the  country,  not  having  an  aptitude  for  business, 
but  a  sensible  person  in  other  respects.  George 
was  an  auctioneer,  but  left  business  and  became 
a  very  ardent  missionary  preacher;  and  Walter 
was  a  respectable  physician.  William  was  placed 
in  easy  circumstances  by  his  marriage.  Their 
sister  Lucy,  Mrs.  Russel  of  New  York,  told  me 
that  she  was  very  much  amused  one  day  by 
something  that  her  brother  William  said  to 
Walter.  "  Walter,"  he  said,  "  I  think  we  are  a  very 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  55 

prosperous  family.  There  is  Henry,  —  he  is  a 
very  excellent  man.  And  George, — why,  George 
has  come  out  a  great  spiritual  man.  And  you,  — 
you  know  how  you  are  getting  along.  And  as 
for  me,  I  do  what  I  can.  I  think  we  are  a  very 
prosperous  family." 

Mrs.  Russel  was  a  person  of  great  sense,  of 
strong,  quiet  thought  and  feeling ;  and  some  of 
her  friends  used  to  say  that,  with  the  same  ad- 
vantages and  opportunities  her  brother  had,  she 
would  have  been  his  equal. 

On  a  day's  visit  which  Henry  once  made  me  in 
New  Bedford,  I  remember  we  had  a  long  con- 
versation on  hunting  and  fishing,  in  which  he 
condemned  them,  and  I  defended.  Pushed  by  his 
arguments,  at  length  I  said, — for  I  went  a-fishing 
myself  sometimes  with  a  boat  on  the  Acushnet; 
yes,  and  barely  escaped  once  being  carried  out  to 
sea  by  the  ebb  tide,  —  I  said,  "  My  fishing  is  not 
a  reckless  destruction  of  life;  somebody  must 
take  fish,  and  bring  them  to  us  for  food,  and 
those  I  catch  come  to  my  table."  —  "  Now,"  said 
he,  "  that  is  as  if  you  said  to  your  butcher,  *  You 
have  to  slay  a  certain  number  of  cattle,  calves, 
and  sheep,  and  turkeys,  and  fowls  for  my  table ; 
let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  coming  and  killing 
them  myself.'  " 

Of  Dr.  Channing  himself,  I  should,  of  course, 
have  much  to  say  here,  if,  as  I  have  just  said,  I 
had  not  already  expressed  my  thoughts  of  him 
in  print.    His  conversation  struck  me  most;  more 


56  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

even  than  any  of  his  writings  ever  did.  He  was 
an  invalid,  and  kept  much  at  home  and  indoors, 
and  he  talked  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  and 
sometimes  for  a  week,  upon  the  same  subject, 
without  ever  letting  it  grow  distasteful  or  weari- 
some. Edward  Everett  said, — he  had  just  re- 
turned from  Europe,  where  doubtless  he  had 
seen  eminent  persons,  —  "  I  have  never  met  with 
anybody  to  whom  it  was  so  interesting  to  listen, 
and  so  hard  to  talk  when  my  turn  came."  There 
was,  indeed,  a  grand  and  surprising  superiority  in 
Channing's  talk,  both  in  the  topics  and  the  treat- 
ment of  them.  There  was  no  repartee  in  it,  and 
not  much  of  give  and  take,  in  any  way.  People 
used  to  come  to  him,  his  clerical  brethren,  —  I 
remember  Henry  Ware  and  others  speaking  of 
it,  —  they  came,  listened  to  him,  said  nothing 
themselves,  and  went  away.  In  fact,  Channing 
talked  for  his  own  sake,  generally.  His  topic 
was  often  that  on  which  he  was  preparing  to 
write.  It  was  curious  to  see  him,  from  time  to 
time,  as  he  talked,  dash  down  a  note  or  two  on 
a  bit  of  paper,  and  throw  it  into  a  pigeon-hole, 
which,  eventually  became  quite  full. 

It  would  appear  from  all  this  that  Channing 
was  not  a  genial  person,  and  he  was  not.  He 
was  too  intent  upon  the  subjects  that  occupied 
his  mind  for  that  varied  and  sportive  talk,  that 
abandon,  that  sympathetic  adjustment  of  his 
thoughts  to  the  moods  of  people  around  him, 
which  makes  the  agreeable  person.     His  thoughts 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  57 

moved  in  solid  battalions,  but  they  carried  keen 
weapons.  It  would  have  been  better  for  him  if 
he  had  had  more  variety,  ease,  and  joyousness  in 
society,  and  he  felt  it  himself.  He  was  not  genial 
either  in  his  conversation  or  letters.  I  doubt  if 
one  gay  or  sportive  letter  can  be  found  among 
them  all.  His  habitual  style  of  address,  out  of 
his  own  family,  was  "  My  dear  Sir,"  never  "  My 
dear  Tom,"  or  "  My  dear  Phillips,"  scarcely,  "  My 
dear  Friend."  Once  he  says,  "Dear  Eliza,"  to 
Miss  Cabot,  who  married  that  noble-minded  man, 
Dr.  Follen,  and  in  them  both  he  always  felt  the 
strongest  interest.  Let  any  one  compare  Chan- 
ning's  letters  with  those  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  for  in- 
stance. The  ease  and  freedom  of  Jeffrey's  letters, 
their  mingled  sense  and  playfulness,  but  espe- 
cially the  hearty  grasp  of  affection  and  familiarity 
in  them,  make  one  feel  as  if  he  were  introduced 
into  some  new  and  more  charming  society.  Jef- 
frey begins  one  of  his  letters  to  Tom  Moore  thus : 
"My  dear  Sir  —  damn  Sir — My  dear  Moore." 
Whether  there  is  not,  among  us,  a  certain  demo- 
cratic reserve  in  this  matter,  I  do  not  know;  but 
I  suspect  it.  Reserve  is  the  natural  defence  set 
up  against  the  claims  of  universal  equality.    . 

In  the  autumn  of  1823,  on  Dr.  Channing's  re- 
turn to  his  pulpit,  I  went  to  New  Bedford  to 
preach  in  the  Congregational  Church,  formerly 
Dr.  (commonly  called  Pater)  West's,  was  invited 
to  be  its  pastor,  and  was  ordained  to  that  charge 


58  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

on  the  17th  of  December,  Dr.  Tuckerman  giving 
the  sermon.  An  incident  occurred  at  the  or- 
dination which  showed  me  that  I  had  fallen 
into  a  new  latitude  of  religious  thought  and 
feeling.  After  the  sermon,  and  in  the  silence 
that  followed,  suddenly  we  heard  the  voice  of 
prayer  from  the  midst  of  the  congregation.  At 
first  we  were  not  a  little  disturbed  by  the  irregu- 
larity, and  the  clergymen  who  leaned  over  the 
pulpit  to  listen  looked  as  if  they  would  have  said, 
"  This  must  be  put  a  stop  to ;  "  but  the  prayer, 
which  was  short,  went  on,  so  simple,  so  sincere, 
so  evidently  unostentatious  and  indeed  beautiful, 
so  in  hearty  sympathy  with  the  occasion,  and  in 
desire  for  a  blessing  on  it,  that  when  it  closed,  all 
said,  "  Amen  !  Amen  !  "  It  was  a  pretty  remark- 
able conquest  over  prejudice  and  usage,  achieved 
by  simple  and  self-forgetting  earnestness.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  to  have  a  certain  before  un- 
thought-of  fitness,  as  a  response  from  the  congre- 
gation, which  is  not  given  in  our  usual  ordination 
services.  The  ten  years'  happy,  and,  I  hope,  not 
unprofitable  ministration  on  my  part  that  fol- 
lowed, and  of  fidelity  on  the  part  of  the  people, 
were  perhaps  some  humble  fulfilment  and  answer 
to  the  good  petitions  that  it  offered,  and  to  all  the 
brotherly  exhortations  and  supplications  of  that 
hour. 

The  congregation  was  small  when  I  became  its 
pastor,  but  it  grew;  a  considerable  number  of 
families  from  the  Society  of  Friends  connected 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  59 

themselves  with  it,  and  it  soon  rose,  as  it  con- 
tinues still,  to  be  one  of  the  wealthiest  and  most 
liberal  societies  in  the  country. 

My  duties  were  very  arduous.  There  was  no 
clergyman  with  whom  I  could  exchange  within 
thirty  miles ;  ^  relief  from  this  quarter,  therefore, 
was  rare,  not  more  than  four  or  five  Sundays  in 
the  year.  I  was  most  of  the  time  in  my  own 
pulpit,  sometimes  for  ten  months  in  succession. 
In  addition  to  this,  I  became  a  constant  con- 
tributor to  the  "  Christian  Examiner,"  —  for  some 
years,  I  think  as  often  as  to  every  other  number. 
It  was  not  wise.  The  duties  of  the  young  clergy- 
man are  enough  for  him.  The  lawyer,  the  phy- 
sician, advances  slowly  to  full  practice ;  the  whole 
weight  falls  upon  the  clergyman's  young  strength 
at  once.  Mine  sunk  under  it.  I  brought  on  a 
certain  nervous  disorder  of  the  brain,  from  which 
I  have  never  since  been  free.  Of  course  it  inter- 
fered seriously  with  my  mental  work.  How  many 
days  —  hundreds  and  hundreds  —  did  one  hour's 
study  in  the  morning  paralyze  and  prostrate  me 
as  completely  as  if  I  had  been  knocked  on  the 
head,  and  lay  me,  for  hours  after,  helpless  on  my 
sofa  !  After  the  Sunday's  preaching,  —  the  effect 
of  which  upon  me  was  perhaps  singular,  making 
my  back  and  bones  ache,  and  my  sinews  as  if 
they  had  been  stretched  on  the  rack,  making  me 

1  This  distance,  which  now  seems  so  trifling,  then  involved  the 
hire  of  a  horse  and  chaise  for  three  days,  and  two  long  days' 
driving  through  deep,  sandy  roads.  —  M.  E-  D. 


6o  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 


feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  lie  on  the  floor  or  on  a  hard 
board,  —  if  any  one  knows  what  that  means,  —  after 
all  this,  it  would  be  sometimes  the  middle  of  the 
week,  sometimes  Thursday  or  Friday,  before  I 
could  begin  to  work  again,  and  prepare  for  the 
next  Sunday.  My  professional  life  was  a  con- 
stant struggle ;  and  yet  I  look  back  upon  it,  not 
with  pain,  but  with  pleasure. 

Besides  all  this,  subjects  of  great  religious  in- 
terest to  me  constantly  pressed  themselves  upon 
my  attention.  I  remember  Dr.  Lamson,  of  Ded- 
ham,  a  very  learned  and  able  man,  asking  me  one 
day  how  I  "found  subjects  to  write  upon;"  and 
my  answering,  "  I  don't  find  subjects ;  they  find 
me."  I  may  say  they  pursued  me.  It  may  be 
owing  to  this  that  my  sermons  have  possibly  a 
somewhat  peculiar  character;  what,  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  remember  William  Ware's  saying, 
when  my  first  volume  of  Discourses  appeared, 
"  that  they  were  written  as  if  nobody  ever  wrote 
sermons  before,"  and  something  so  they  were 
written.  I  do  not  suppose  there  is  much  origi- 
nality of  thought  in  them,  nor  any  curiosa  felicitas 
of  language,  —  I  could  not  attend  to  it ;  it  was 
as  much  as  I  could  do  to  disburden  myself,  —  but 
original  in  this  they  are,  that  they  were  wrought 
out  in  the  bosom  of  my  own  meditation  and  ex- 
perience. The  pen  was  dipped  in  my  heart,  —  I 
do  know  that.  With  burning  brain  and  bursting 
tears  I  wrote.  Little  fruit,  perhaps,  for  so  much 
struggle;  be  it  so,  —  though  it  could  not  be  so 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  6i 

to  me.     But  so  we  work,  —  each  one  in  his  own 
way ;   and  altogether  something  comes  of  it. 

Early  in  my  professional  life,  too,  I  met  certain 
questions,  which  every  thinking  man  meets  sooner 
or  later,  and  which  were  pressed  upon  my  mind 
by  the  new  element  that  came  into  our  religious 
society.  The  Friends  are  trained  up  to  reverence 
the  inward  light,  and  have  the  less  respect  for 
historical  Christianity.  The  revelation  in  our 
nature,  then,  and  the  revelation  in  the  Scriptures ; 
the  proper  place  of  each  in  any  just  system  of 
thought  and  theology ;  what  importance  is  to  be 
assigned  to  the  primitive  intuitions  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  what  to  the  supernaturalism,  to  the 
miracles  of  the  New  Testament,  —  these  were  the 
questions,  and  I  discussed  them  a  good  deal  in 
the  pulpit,  as  matters  very  practical  to  many 
of  the  minds  Avith  which  I  was  dealing.  I  admitted 
the  full,  nay,  the  supreme  value  of  the  original 
intuitions,  of  the  inward  light,  of  the  teachings 
of  the  Infinite  Spirit  in  the  human  soul ;  without 
them  we  could  have  no  religion;  without  them 
we  could  not  understand  the  New  Testament  at 
all,  and  Christianity  would  be  but  as  light  to  the 
blind ;  but  I  maintained  that  Christ's  teaching 
and  living  and  dying  were  the  most  powerful  ap- 
peal and  help  and  guidance  to  the  inward  nature, 
to  the  original  religion  of  the  soul,  that  it  had 
ever  received.  And  I  believed  and  maintained 
that  this  help,  at  once  most  divine  and  most  hu- 
man, was  commended  to  the  world  by  miraculous 


62  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

attestations.  Not  that  the  miracle,  or  the  miracle- 
sanctioned  Christianity,  was  intended  to  supersede 
or  disparage  the  inward  light ;  not  that  it  made 
clearer  the  truth  that  benevolence  is  right,  any- 
more than  it  could  make  clearer  the  proposition 
that  two  and  two  make  four;  not  that  it  lent  a 
sanction  to  any  intuitive  truth,  but  that  it  was 
the  seal  of  a  mission,  —  this  was  what  I  insisted  on. 
And  certainly  a  being  who  appeared  before  me, 
living  a  divine  life,  and  assuring  me  of  God's 
paternal  care  for  me  and  of  my  own  immortality, 
would  impress  me  far  more,  if  there  were 
"works"  done  by  him  "which  no  other  man 
could  do,  which  bore  witness  of  him."  And 
although  it  should  appear,  as  in  a  late  work  on 
"  The  Progress  of  Religious  Ideas "  it  has  been 
made  to  appear,  that  in  the  old  systems  there 
were  foreshadowings  of  that  which  I  receive  as 
the  most  true  and  divine ;  that  the  light  had 
been  shining  on  brighter  and  brighter  through 
all  ages,  —  that  would  not  make  it  any  the  less 
credible  or  interesting  to  me,  that  Jesus  should 
be  the  consummation  of  all,  —  the  "  true  Light " 
that  lighteth  the  steps  of  men;  and  that  this 
Light  should  have  come  from  God's  especial  illu- 
mination, and  should  be  far  above  the  common 
and  natural  light  of  this  world's  day.  Nay,  it 
would  be  more  grateful  to  me  to  believe  that 
all  religions  have  had  in  them  something  super- 
naturally  and  directly  from  above,  than  that  none 
have. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  63 

But  time  went  on,  and  work  went  on,  reason  as 
I  might;  though  time  would  have  lost  its  light 
and  life,  and  work  all  cheer  and  comfort,  if  I  had 
not  believed.  But  work  grew  harder ;  I  was 
obliged  to  take  longer  and  longer  vacations,  — 
one  of  them  five  months  long  at  the  home  in 
Sheffield.  .  .  .  After  this  I  went  back  to  my  work, 
preaching  almost  exclusively  in  my  own  pulpit, 
seldom  going  away,  unless  it  was  now  and  then 
for  an  occasional  sermon. 

I  went  over  to  Providence  in  1832,  to  preach 
the  sermon  at  Dr.  Hall's  installation  as  pastor  of 
the  First  Church.  Arrived  on  the  evening  before, 
some  of  us  of  the  council  went  to  a  caucus,  pre- 
paratory to  a  Presidential  election.  General  Jack- 
son being  candidate  for  the  Presidency  and  Martin 
Van  Buren  for  Vice-President.  Finding  the  speak- 
ing rather  dull,  after  an  hour  or  more  we  rose  to 
leave,  when  a  gentleman  touched  my  arm  and 
said,  "  Now,  if  you  will  stay,  you  will  hear  some- 
thing worth  waiting  for."  We  took  our  seats,  and 
saw  John  Whipple  rising  to  speak.  I  was  ex- 
ceedingly grateful  for  the  interruption  of  our  pur- 
pose, for  I  never  heard  an  address  to  a  popular 
assembly  so  powerful;  close,  compact,  cogent, 
Demosthenic  in  simplicity  and  force,  —  not  a 
word  misplaced,  not  a  word  too  many,  —  and 
fraught  with  that  strange  power  over  the  feelings, 
lent  by  sadness  and  despondency,  —  a  state  of 
mind,  I  think,  most  favorable  to  real  eloquence, 
in  which  all  verbiage  is  eschewed,  and  the  burden 


^  64  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dezvey. 

upon  the  heart  is  too  heavy  to  allow  the  speaker 
to  think  of  himself. 

Mr.  Whipple  was  in  the  opposition,  and  his 
main  charge  against  Van  Buren  especially,  was, 
that  it  was  he  who  had  introduced  into  our  politics 
the  fatal  principle  of  "  the  spoils  to  the  victors," 
—  a  principle  which,  as  the  orator  maintained, 
with  prophetic  sagacity,  threatened  ruin  to  the 
Republic.  Still  there  was  no  extravagance  in  his 
way  of  bringing  the  charge.  I  remember  his 
saying,  "  Does  Mr.  Van  Buren,  then,  wish  for 
the  ruin  of  his  country?  No;  Caesar  never 
wished  for  the  glory  of  Rome  more  than  when  he 
desired  her  to  be  laid,  as  a  bound  victim,  at  his 
feet." 

We  have  learned  since  more  than  we  knew 
then  of  the  direful  influence  of  that  party  cry, 
"The  spoils  to  the  victors."  It  has  made  our 
elections  scrambles  for  office,  and  our  parties 
"  rings."  Mr.  Whipple  portrayed  the  consequen- 
ces which  we  are  now  feeling,  and  powerfully 
urged  that  his  State,  small  though  it  was,  should 
do  its  utmost  to  ward  them  off.  As  he  went  on, 
and  carried  us  higher  and  higher,  I  began  to  con- 
sider how  he  was  to  let  us  down.  But  the  skilful 
orator  is  apt  to  have  some  clinching  instance  or 
anecdote  in  reserve,  and  Mr.  Whipple's  close  was 
this:  — 

"  There  sleep  now,  within  the  sound  of  my  voice,  the 
bones  of  a  man  who  once  stood  up  in  the  revolutionary 
battles  for  his  country.     In  one  of  them,  he  told  me, 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  65 

when  the  little  American  army,  ill  armed,  ill  clad,  and 
with  bleeding  feet,  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  disci- 
plined troops  of  England,  *  General  Washington  passed 
along  our  lines,  and  when  he  came  before  us,  he  stopped, 
and  said,  "  I  place  great  confidence  in  this  Rhode  Island 
regiment."  And  when  I  heard  that,'  said  he, '  I  clasped 
my  musket  to  my  breast,  and  said,  Damn  'em ;  let  'em 
come  1 '  The  immortal  Chieftain  [said  the  orator]  is 
looking  down  upon  us  now ;  and  he  says,  '  I  place  great 
confidence  in  this  Rhode  Island  regiment.'  " 

And  now,  on  the  whole,  what  shall  I  say  of  my 
life  in  New  Bedford  ?  It  was,  in  the  main,  very 
happy.  I  thought  I  was  doing  good  there ;  I 
certainly  was  thoroughly  interested  in  what  I  was 
doing.  I  found  cultivated  and  interesting  society 
there.  I  made  friends,  who  are  such  to  me  still. 
In  the  pastoral  relation.  New  Bedford  was,  and 
long  continued  to  be,  the  very  home  of  my  heart; 
it  was  my  first  love. 

In  1827 1  was  invited  to  go  to  New  York.  I  did 
not  wish  to  go,  so  I  expressly  told  the  church  in 
New  York  (the  Second  Church)  ;  but  I  consented, 
in  order  to  accomplish  what  they  thought  a  great 
good,  provided  my  congregation  in  New  Bedford 
would  give  their  consent.  They  would  not  give 
it;  and  I  remained.  I  believe  that  I  should  have 
lived  and  died  among  them,  if  my  health  had  not 
failed. 

But  it  failed  to  that  degree  that  I  could  no 
longer  do  the  work,  and  I  determined  to  go 
abroad  and   recruit,    and  recover  it,  if  possible. 


66  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

This  was  in  1833.  The  Messrs.  Grinnell  &  Co., 
of  New  York,  offered  me  a  passage  back  and 
forth  in  their  ships, — one  of  the  thousand  kind 
and  generous  things  that  they  were  always  doing, 
—  and  I  sailed  from  New  York  in  the  "  George 
Washington  "  on  the  8th  of  June.  It  was  like 
death  to  me  to  go.  I  can  compare  it  to  nothing 
else,  —  going,  as  I  did,  alone. 

In  London  I  consulted  Sir  James  Clarke,  who 
told  me  that  the  disease  was  in  the  brain,  and 
that  I  must  pass  three  or  four  years  abroad  if  I 
would  recover  from  it.  I  believe  I  stared  at  his 
proposition,  —  it  seemed  to  me  so  monstrous, — 
for  he  said,  in  fine :  "  Well,  you  may  go  home  in 
a  year,  and  think  yourself  well ;  but  if  you  go 
about  your  studies,  you  will  probably  bring  on 
the  same  trouble  again;  and  if  you  do,  in  all 
probability  you  will  never  get  rid  of  it."  Alas ! 
it  all  proved  true.  I  came  home  in  the  spring 
of  1834,  thinking  myself  well.  I  had  had  no 
consciousness  of  a  brain  for  three  months  before 
I  left  Europe.  I  went  to  work  as  usual ;  in  one 
month  the  whole  trouble  was  upon  me  again, 
and  it  became  evident  that  I  must  leave  New 
Bedford.  I  could  write  no  more  sermons ;  I  had 
preached  every  sermon  I  had,  that  was  worth 
preaching,  five  times  over,  and  I  could  not  face 
another  repetition.  I  retired  with  my  family 
to  the  home  in  Sheffield,  and  expected  to  pass 
some  years  at  least  in  the  quiet  of  my  native 
village. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  6y 

I  should  like  to  record  some  New  Bedford 
names  here,  so  precious  are  they  to  me.  Miss 
Mary  Rotch  is  one,  —  called  by  everybody 
"  Aunt  Mary,"  from  mingled  veneration  and  af- 
fection. It  might  seem  a  liberty  to  call  her  so ; 
but  it  was  not,  in  her  case.  She  had  so  much 
dignity  and  strength  in  her  character  and  bearing 
that  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  speak  of 
her  lightly.  On  our  going  to  New  Bedford,  she 
immediately  called  upon  us,  and  when  she 
went  out  I  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  Wife, 
were  ever  hearts  taken  by  storm  like  that !  " 
Storm,  the  word  would  be,  according  to  the 
usage  of  the  phrase ;  but  it  was  the  very  contrary, 
—  a  perfect  simplicity  and  kindliness.  But  she 
was  capable,  too,  of  righteous  wrath,  as  I  had 
more  than  one  occasion  afterwards  to  see.  In- 
deed, I  was  once  the  object  of  it  myself.  It  was 
sometime  after  I  left  New  Bedford,  that,  in  writing 
a  review  of  the  admirable  Life  of  Blanco  White 
by  the  Rev.  J.  H.  Thom,  of  Liverpool,  while  I 
spoke  with  warm  appreciation  of  his  character,  I 
commented  with  regret  upon  his  saying,  toward 
the  close  of  his  life,  that  he  did  not  care  whether 
he  should  live  hereafter;  and  I  happened  to  use 
the  phrase,  "  He  died  and  made  no  sign,"  without 
thinking  of  the  miserable  Cardinal  Beaufort,  to 
whom  Shakespeare  applies  it.  Aunt  Mary  im- 
mediately came  down  upon  me  with  a  letter  of 
towering  indignation  for  my  intolerance.  I  re- 
plied to  her,  saying  that  if  ever  I  should  be  so 


68  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dew^. 

happy  as  to  arrive  at  the  blessed  world  where  I 
beheved  that  she  and  Blanco  White  would  be, 
and  they  were  not  too  far  beyond  me  for  me  to 
have  any  communion  with  them,  she  would  see 
that  I  was  guilty  of  no  such  exclusiveness  as  she 
had  ascribed  to  me.  She  was  pacified,  I  think, 
and  we  went  on,  as  good  friends  as  ever.  Her 
religious  opinions  were  of  the  most  catholic 
stamp,  and  in  one  respect  they  were  peculiar. 
The  Friends'  idea  of  the  "  inwar4  light"  seemed 
to  have  become  with  her  coincident  with  the  idea 
of  the  Author  of  all  light;  and  when  speaking  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  she  would  never  say  "  God," 
but  "  that  Influence."  That  Influence  was  con- 
stantly with  her ;  and  she  carried  the  idea  so  far 
as  to  believe  that  it  prompted  her  daily  action, 
and  decided  for  her  every  question  of  duty. 

Miss  Eliza  Rotch  had  come  from  her  English 
home  shortly  before  my  going  to  New  Bedford, 
and  had  brought,  with  her  English  education  and 
sense,  more  than  the  ordinary  English  powers  of 
conversation.  She,  like  all  her  family,  had  been 
bred  in  the  Friends'  Society;  and  she  came  with 
many  of  them  to  my  church.  She  was  a  most 
remarkable  hearer.  With  her  bright  face,  and 
her  full,  speaking  eye,  and  interested  especially, 
no  doubt,  in  the  new  kind  of  ministration  to 
which  she  was  listening,  she  gave  me  her  whole 
attention,  —  often  slightly  nodding  her  assent,  un- 
consciously to  herself  and  unobserved  by  others. 
She  married  Professor  John  Farrar  of  Harvard,  an 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  69 

able  mathematician,  and  one  of  the  most  genial 
and  lovable  men  that  ever  lived. 

Life,  in  our  quiet  little  town,  was  more  leisurely 
than  it  is  in  cities,  and  the  consequence  was  an  un- 
usual development  of  amusing  qualities.  There 
was  more  fun,  and  I  ventured  sometimes  to  say, 
there  was  more  wit,  in  New  Bedford  than  there 
was  in  Boston.  To  be  sure,  we  could  not  pretend 
to  compare  with  Boston  in  culture  and  in  high 
and  fine  conversation,  —  least  of  all  in  music, 
which  was  at  a  very  low  ebb  with  us.  I  remem- 
ber being  at  an  Oratorio  in  one  of  our  churches, 
where  the  trump  of  Judgment  was  represented 
by  a  horn  not  much  louder  than  a  penny-whistle, 
blown  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  building ! 

Charles  H.  Warren  was  the  prince  of  humorists 
among  us,  and  would  have  been  so  anywhere. 
Channing  said  to  me  one  day,  "  I  want  to  see 
your  friend  Warren ;  I  want  to  see  him  as  you 
do."  I  could  not  help  replying,  "  That  you 
never  will ;  I  should  as  soon  expect  to  hear  a 
man  laugh  in  a  cathedral."  I  never  knew  a  man 
quite  so  full  of  the  power  to  entertain  others  in 
conversation  as  he  was.  Lemuel  Williams,  his 
brother  lawyer,  had  perhaps  a  subtler  wit.  But 
the  way  Warren  would  go  on,  for  a  whole  even- 
ing, letting  off  bon-mots,  repartees,  and  puns,  made 
one  think  of  a  magazine  of  pyrotechnics.  Yet 
he  was  a  man  of  serious  thought  and  fine  intel- 
lectual powers.  He  was  an  able  lawyer,  and, 
placed  upon  the  bench  at  an  uncommonly  early 


70  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

age,  he  sustained  himself  with  honor.     I  used  to 
lament  that  he  would  not  study  more,  —  that  he 
gave  himself  up  so  much  to  desultory  reading; 
but  he  had  no  ambition.     Yet,  after  all,  I  believe 
that   the   physical   organization  has  more  to  do 
with  every  man's  career  than  is  commonly  sus- 
pected.    His  was  very  delicate,  his  complexion 
fair,  and  his  face,  indeed,  was  fine  and  expressive 
in  a  rare  degree.     The  sanguine-bilious,  I  think, 
is  the  temperament  for  deep  intellectual  power,  — 
like  Daniel  Webster's.    It  lends  not  only  strength, 
but  protection,  to  the  workings  of  the  mind  within. 
It  is  not  too  sensitive  to  surrounding  impressions. 
Concentration  is  force.     Long,  deep,  undisturbed 
thinking,    alone  can   bring  out  great  results.     I 
have  been  accustomed  to  criticise  my  own  tem- 
perament  in   this   respect,  —  too    easily    drawn 
aside  from  study  by  circumstances,  persons,  or 
things  around  me,  external  interests  or  trifles,  the 
wants  and  feelings  of  others,  or  their  sports,  a 
playing  child  or  a  crowing  cock.     My  mind,  such 
as  it  is,  has  had  to  struggle  with  this  outward  ten- 
dency, —  too  much  feeling  and  sentiment,  and  too 
little  patient  thinking, —  and  I  believe  that  I  should 
have  accomplished  a  great  deal  more  if  I  had  had, 
not  the  sanguine  alone,  but  the.  sanguine-bilious 
temperament. 

Manasseh  Kempton  had  it.  He  was  the  dea- 
con of  my  church.  I  used  to  think  that  nobody 
knew,  or  at  least  fairly  appreciated,  him  as  I  did. 
Under  that  heavy  brow,  and  phlegmatic  aspect, 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  71 

and  reserved  bearing,  there  was  an  amount  of  fire 
and  passion  and  thought,  and  sometimes  in  con- 
versation an  eloquence,  which  showed  me  that, 
with  proper  advantages,  he  would  have  made  a 
great  man. 

James  Arnold  was  a  person  too  remarkable  to 
be  passed  over  in  this  account  of  the  New  Bedford 
men.  With  great  wealth,  with  the  most  beauti- 
ful situation  in  the  town,  and,  yet  more,  with  the 
aid  of  his  wife,  —  never  mentioned  or  remembered 
but  to  be  admired,  —  his  house  was  the  acceptable 
resort  of  strangers,  more  than  any  other  among 
us.  Mr.  Arnold  was  not  only  a  man  of  unshaken 
integrity,  but  of  strong  thought ;  and  if  a  liberal 
education  had  given  him  powers  of  utterance,  — 
the  habit  of  marshalling  his  thoughts,  equal  to 
the  powers  of  his  mind,  —  he  would  have  been 
known  as  one  of  the  remarkable  men  in  the 
State. 

One  other  figure  rises  to  my  recollection, 
which  seems  hardly  to  belong  to  the  modern 
world,  and  that  is  Dr.  Whittredge  of  Tiverton. 
In  his  religious  faith  he  belonged  to  us,  and  oc- 
casionally came  over  to  attend  our  church.  I 
used,  from  time  to  time,  to  pay  him  visits  of  a 
day  or  two,  —  always  made  pleasant  by  the  placid 
and  gentle  presence  of  his  wife,  and  by  the  brisk 
and  eager  conversation  of  the  old  gentleman. 
He  was  acquainted  in  his  earlier  days  with  my 
predecessor,  of  twenty-five  years  previous  date, 
Dr.  West,  himself  a  remarkable  man  in  his  day. 


72  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey, 

and  almost  equally  so,  both  for  his  eccentricity 
and  his  sense.  An  eccentric  clergyman,  by  the 
by,  is  rarely  seen  now ;  but  in  former  times  it 
was  a  character  as  common  as  now  it  is  rare. 
The  commanding  position  of  the  clergy  —  the 
freedom  they  felt  to  say  and  do  what  they 
pleased  —  brought  that  trait  out  in  high  relief. 
The  great  democratic  pressure  has  passed  like  a 
roller  over  society :  everybody  is  afraid  of  every- 
body; everybody  wants  something,  —  office,  ap- 
pointment, business,  position,  —  and  he  is  to 
receive  it,  not  from  a  high  patron,  but  from  the 
common  vote  or  opinion. 

Dr.  West's  eccentricity  arose  from  absorption 
into  his  own  thoughts,  and  forgetfulness  of  every- 
thing around  him.  He  would  pray  in  the  family 
in  the  evening  till  everybody  went  to  sleep,  and 
in  the  morning  till  the  breakfast  was  spoiled.  He 
would  preach  upon  some  Scripture  passage  till 
some  one  went  and  moved  his  mark  forward.  He 
once  paid  a  visit  to  the  Governor  in  Boston,  and, 
having  got  drenched  in  the  rain,  was  supplied 
with  a  suit  of  his  host's,  which  unconsciously,  he 
wore  home,  and  arrayed  in  which,  he  appeared 
in  his  pulpit  on  Sunday  morning.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  a  man  of  strong  and  independent 
thought.  I  have  read  a  "  Reply"  of  his  to 
Edwards  on  the  Will,  in  which  the  subject  was 
ably  discussed,  but  without  the  needful  logical 
coherence,  perhaps,  to  make  its  mark  in  the 
debate. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  73 

The  conversations  of  West  with  his  friend,  Dr. 

Whittredge,  as  the  latter  told  me,  ran  constantly 
into  theological  questions,  —  upon  which  they 
differed.  West  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Tiverton, 
and,  when  the  debate  drew  on  towards  midnight, 
Whittredge  was  obliged  to  say,  "  Well,  I  can't  sit 
here  talking  with  you  all  night ;  for  I  must  sleep, 
that  I  may  go  and  see  my  patients  to-morrow." 
He  was  vexed,  he  said,  that  he  should  thus 'seem 
to  "  cry  quarter "  in  the  controversy  again  and 
again,  and  he  resolved  that  the  next  time  he  met 
West,  he  would  not  stop,  be  they  where  they 
might.  It  so  happened  that  their  next  meeting 
was  at  the  head  of  Acushnet  River,  three  miles 
above  New  Bedford,  where  Whittredge  was  visit- 
ing His  patients,  and  West  his  parishioners.  This 
done,  they  set  out  towards  evening  to  walk  to 
New  Bedford.  Whittredge  throwing  the  bridle- 
rein  over  his  arm,  they  walked  on  slowly,  every 
now  and  then  turning  aside  into  some  crook  of 
the  fence, — the  horse  meantime  getting  his  ad- 
vantage in  a  bit  of  green  grass,  —  and  thus  they 
talked  and  walked,  and  walked  and  talked,  till  the 
day  broke ! 

But  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  my  ven- 
erable parishioner  remains  to  be  mentioned.  Dr. 
Whittredge  was  an  alchemist.  He  had  a  furnace, 
in  a  little  building  separate  from  his  house,  where 
he  kept  a  fire  for  forty  years,  till  he  was  more 
than  eighty,  —  visiting  it  every  night,  of  summer 
and  winter  alike,  to  be  sure  of  keeping  it  alive ; 


74  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

and  melting  down,  as  his  family  said,  many  a 
good  guinea,  and  all  to  find  the  philosopher's 
stone, — the  mysterious  metal  that  should  turn  all 
to  gold.  From  delicacy  I  never  alluded  to  the 
subject  with  him,  —  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did 
not.  And  he  never  adverted  to  it  with  me  but 
once,  and  that  was  in  a  way  which  showed  that 
he  had  no  mean  or  selfish  aims  in  his  patient  and 
mysterious  search;  and,  indeed,  no  one  could 
doubt  that  he  was  a  most  benevolent  and  kind- 
hearted  man.  The  occasion  was  this  :  He  had 
been  to  our  church  one  day,  —  indeed,  it  was  his 
last  attendance,  —  and  as  we  came  down  from  the 
pulpit,  where  he  always  sat,  the  better  to  hear 
me,  and  as  we  were  walking  slowly  through  the 
broad  aisle,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder, 
and  said,  "  Ah,  sir,  this  is  the  true  doctrine  !  But 
it  wants  money,  —  it  wants  money,  sir,  to  spread 
it,  and  /  hope  it  will  have  it  before  long." 

While  in  Europe  I  had  kept  a  journal,  and  I 
now  published  it  under  the  title  of  "  The  Old 
World  and  the  New,"  and  about  the  same  time,  I 
forget  which  was  first,  a  volume  of  sermons  en- 
titled, "  Discourses  on  Various  Subjects."  Th^ 
idea  of  my  book  of  travels,  I  think,  was  a  good 
one,  —  to  survey  the  Old  World  from  the  experi- 
ence of  the  New,  and  the  New  from  the  observa- 
tion of  the  Old;  but  it  was  so  ill  carried  out 
that  what  I  mainly  proposed  to  myself  on  my 
second  visit  to  Europe,  ten  years  after,  was  to 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  75 

fulfil,  as  far  as  I  could,  my  original  design.  But 
my  health  did  not  allow  of  it.  I  made  many 
notes,  but  brought  nothing  into  shape  for  publi- 
cation. I  still  believe  that  America  has  much  to 
teach  to  Europe,  especially  in  the  energy,  devel- 
opment, and  progress  lent  to  a  people  by  the 
working  of  the  free  principle ;  and  that  Europe 
has  much  to  teach  to  America,  in  the  value  of 
order,  routine,  thorough  discipline,  thorough  edu- 
cation, division  of  labor,  economy  of  means,  ad- 
justment of  the  means  to  living,  etc.  As  to  my 
first  volume  of  sermons,  —  if  any  one  would  see 
his  thoughts  laid  out  in  a  winding-sheet,  let  them 
be  laid  before  him  in  printer's  proofs ;  that  which 
had  been  to  me  alive  and  glowing,  and  had  had 
at  least  the  life  of  earnest  utterance,  now,  through 
this  weary  looking  over  of  proof-sheets,  seemed 
dead  and  shrouded  for  the  grave.  It  did  not 
seem  to  me  possible  that  anybody  would  find  it 
alive.  I  have  hardly  ever  had  a  sadder  feeling 
than  that  with  which  I  dismissed  this  volume  from 
my  hands. 

At  the  time  of  my  retirement  to  Sheffield,  the 
w  Second  Congregational  Church  in  New  York, 
which  had  formerly  invited  me  to  its  pulpit,  was 
without  a  pastor,  and  I  was  asked  to  go  down 
there  and  preach.  I  could  preach,  though  I 
could  not  write ;  my  sermons,  with  their  five  ear- 
marks upon  them  in  New  Bedford,  would  be  new 
in  another  pulpit,  and  I  consented.     I  was  soon 


y6  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

invited  to  take  charge  of  the  church,  but  declined 
it.  It  was  even  proposed  to  me  to  be  estabhshed 
simply  as  preacher,  and  to  be  relieved  from 
parochial  visiting;  but  as  the  congregation  was 
small,  and  could  not  support  a  pastor  beside  me, 
I  declined  that  also.  But  I  went  on  preaching, 
and  after  about  a  year,  feeling  myself  stronger,  I 
consented  to  be  settled  in  the  church  with  full 
charge,  and  was  installed  on  the  8th  November, 
1835,  Dr.  Walker  preaching  the  sermon. 

The  church  was  on  the  corner  of  Mercer  and 
Prince  Streets;  a  bad  situation,  inasmuch  as  it 
was  on  a  corner,  that  is,  it  was  noisy,  and  the  an- 
noyance became  so  great  that  I  seriously  thought 
more  than  once  of  proposing  to  the  congregation 
to  sell  and  build  elsewhere.  On  other  accounts 
the  church  was  always  very  pleasant  to  me.  It 
was  of  moderate  size,  holding  seven  or  eight  hun- 
dred people,  and  became  in  the  course  of  a  year 
or  two  quite  full.  The  stairs  to  the  galleries 
went  up  on  the  inside,  giving  it,  I  know  not  what, 
—  a  kind  of  comfortable  and  domestic  air,  very 
social  and  agreeable ;  and  last,  not  least,  it  was 
easy  to  speak  in.  This  last  consideration,  I  am 
convinced,  is  of  more  importance,  and  is  so  in  % 
more  ways,  than  is  commonly  supposed.  A 
place  hard  to  speak  in  is  apt  to  create,  especially 
in  the  young  preacher  just  forming  his  habits,  a 
hard  and  unnatural  manner  of  speaking.  More 
than  one  young  preacher  have  I  known,  who  be- 
gan with  good  natural  tones,  in  the  course  of  a 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  yy 

year  or  two,  to  fall  into  a  loud,  pulpit  monotone, 
or  to  bring  out  all  his  cadences  with  a  jerk,  or 
with  a  disagreeable  stress  of  voice,  —  to  be  heard. 
One  must  be  heard,  —  that  is  the  first  requisite, 

—  and  to  have  one  and  another  come  out  of 
church  Sunday  after  Sunday,  and  touch  your 
elbow,  and  say,  "  Sir,  I  couldn't  hearyo\x\  I  was 
interested  in  what  I  could  hear,  but  just  at  the 
point  of  greatest  interest,  half  of  the  time,  I  lost 
your  cadence,"  is  more  than  any  man  can  bear 
for  a  long  time,  and  so  he  resorts  to  loud  tones 
and  monotonous  cadences,  and  he  is  obliged  to 
think,  much  of  the  time,  more  of  the  mere  dry 
fact  of  being  heard,  than  of  the  themes  that 
should  pour  themselves  out  in  full  unfolding  ease 
and  freedom.  I  have  fought  through  my  whole 
professional  life  against  this  criticism,  striving  to 
keep  some  freedom  and  nature  in  my  speech, 
though  I  have  made  every  effort  consistent  with 
that  to  be  heard.  I  have  not  always  succeeded ; 
but  I  have  tried,  and  have  always  been  grateful 

—  a  considerable  virtue,  especially  when  the 
hearer  was  himself  a  little  deaf —  to  every  one 
who  admonished  me.     This  is  really  a  matter  that 

♦  seriously  concerns  the  very  religion  that  we 
preach.  Everybody  knows  what  the  preaching 
tone  is ;  it  can  be  distinguished  the  moment  it  is 
heard,  outside  of  any  church,  school-house,  or 
barn  where  it  is  uplifted ;  but  few  consider,  I 
believe,  of  what  immense  disservice  it  is  to  the 
great  cause  we  have  at  heart.     Preaching  is  the 


78  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

principal  ministration  of  religion,  and  if  it  be  hard 
and  unnatural,  the  very  idea  of  religion  is  likely 
to  be  hard  and  unnatural,  —  far  away  from  the 
every-day  life  and  affections  of  men.  Stamp 
upon  music  a  character  as  hard,  technical,  unnat- 
ural as  most  preaching  has,  and  would  men  be 
won  by  it?  I  do  not  say  that  what  I  have  men- 
tioned is  the  sole  cause  of  the  "  preaching  tone;" 
false  ideas  of  religion  have,  doubtless,  even  more 
to  do  with  it.  But  still  it  is  of  such  importance 
that  I  think  no  church  interior  should  be  built 
without  especial  —  nay,  without  sole  —  reference 
to  the  end  for  which  it  is  built,  namely,  to  speak  in. 
Let  what  can  be  done  for  the  architecture  of 
the  exterior  building;  but  let  not  an  interior  be 
made  with  recesses  and  projections  and  pillars 
and  domes,  only  to  please  the  eye,  while  it  is 
to  hurt  the  edification  of  successive  generations, 
for  two  or  for  ten  centuries.  No  ornamentation 
can  compensate  for  that  injury.  The  science  of 
acoustics  is  as  yet  but  little  understood  ;  all  that 
we  seem  to  know  thus  far  is  that  the  plain,  un- 
adorned parallelogram  is  the  best  form.  And 
even  if  we  must  stick  to  that,  I  had  rather  have  it 
than  a  church  half  ruined  by  architectural  devices. 
Our  Protestant  churches  are  built,  not  for  cere- 
monies and  spectacles  and  processions,  but  for 
prayer  and  preaching.  And  the  fitness  of  means 
to  ends  —  that  first  law  of  architecture  —  is  sac- 
rificed by  a  church  interior  made  more  to  be 
looked  at  than  to  be  heard  in. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  79 

But  to  return :  we  were  not  long  to  occupy 
the  pleasant  little  church  in  Mercer  Street, — 
pleasant  memories  I  hope  there  are  of  it  to  others 
besides  myself.  On  Sunday  morning,  the  26th 
November,  1837,  it  was  burned  to  the  ground. 
Nothing  was  saved  but  my  library,  which  was 
flung  out  of  the  vestry  window,  and  the  pulpit 
Bible,  which  I  have,  —  a  present  from  the  trustees. 

The  congregation  immediately  took  a  hall  for 
temporary  worship  in  the  Stuyvesant  Institute, 
and  directed  its  thoughts  to  the  building  of  a  new 
church.  Much  discussion  there  was  as  to  the 
style  and  the  locality  of  the  new  structure,  and  at 
length  it  was  determined  to  build  in  a  semi-Gothic 
style,  on  Broadway.  I  was  not  myself  in  favor  of 
Broadway,  it  being  the  great  city  thoroughfare, 
and  ground  very  expensive;  but  it  was  thought 
best  to  build  there.  It  was  contended  that  a  propa- 
gandist church  should  occupy  a  conspicuous  situ- 
ation, and  perhaps  that  view  has  been  borne  out 
by  the  result.  One  parishioner,  I  remember,  had 
an  odd,  or  at  least  an  old-fashioned,  idea  about 
the  matter.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  you  don't  under- 
stand our  feeling  about  Broadway.  Sir,  there  is 
but  one  Broadway  in  the  world."  It  is  now  be- 
coming a  street  of  shops  and  hotels,  and  is  fast 
losing  its  old  fashionable  prestige. 

The  building  was  completed  in  something  more 
than  a  year,  and  on  the  2d  May,  1839,  it  was 
dedicated,  under  the  name  of  the  Church  of  the 
Messiah.     The    burning   of    our   sanctuary   had 


8o  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

proved  to  be  our  upbuilding;  the  position  of  the 
Stuyvesant  Institute  on  Broadway,  and  the  plan 
of  free  seats,  had  increased  our  numbers,  and  we 
entered  the  new  church  with  a  congregation  one 
third  larger  than  that  with  which  we  left  the  old. 
The  building  had  cost  about  $90,000,  and  it  was 
a  critical  moment  to  us  all,  but  to  me  especially, 
when  the  pews  came  to  be  sold.  It  may  be  judged 
what  was  my  relief  from  anxiety  when  word  was 
brought  me,  two  hours  after  the  auction  was 
opened,  that  $70,000  worth  of  pews  were  taken. 

It  was  a  strong  desire  with  me  that  the  church 
should  have  some  permanent  name.  I  did  not 
want  that  it  should  be  called  my  church,  and  then 
by  the  name  of  my  successor,  and  so  on ;  but  that 
it  should  be  known  by  some  fixed  designation, 
and  so  pass  down,  gathering  about  it  the  sacred 
associations  of  years  and  ages  to  come.  I  believe 
that  it  was  the  first  instance  in  our  Unitarian  body 
of  solemnly  dedicating  a  church  by  some  sacred 
name. 

Another  wish  of  mine  was  to  enter  the  new 
church  with  the  Liturgy  of  King's  Chapel  in  Bos- 
ton for  our  form  of  service.  The  subject  was 
repeatedly  discussed  in  meetings  of  the  congrega- 
tion; but  although  it  became  evident  that  there 
would  be  a  majority  in  favor  of  it,  yet  as  these 
did  not  demand  it,  and  there  was  a  considerable 
minority  strongly  opposed  to  it,  we  judged  that 
there  was  not  a  state  of  feeling  among  us  that 
would  justify  the  introduction  of  what  so  essen- 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  8 1 

tially  required  unanimity  and  heartiness  as  a  new 
form  of  worship.  And  I  am  now  glad  that  it  was 
not  introduced.  For  while  I  am  as  much  satis- 
fied as  ever  of  the  great  utility  of  a  Liturgy,  I 
have  become  equally  convinced  that  original, 
spontaneous  prayer  is  likely  to  open  the  preach- 
er's heart,  or  to  stir  up  the  gift  in  him  in  a  way 
very  important  to  his  own  ministration  and  to 
the  edification  of  his  people.  The  best  service,  I 
think,  should  consist  of  both. 

And  I  cannot  help  believing  that  a  church  ser- 
vice will  yet  be  arranged  which  will  be  an  im- 
provement upon  all  existing  ones,  Roman  Catholic, 
Church  of  England,  or  any  other.  If  in  the  high- 
est ranges  of  human  attainment  there  is  to  be  an 
advancement  of  age  beyond  age,  surely  there  is 
to  be  a  progress  in  the  spirit  and  language  of 
prayer.  From  some  forming  hand  and  heart,  by 
the  united  aid  of  consecrated  genius,  wisdom,  and 
piety,  something  is  to  come  greater  than  we  have 
yet  seen.  No  Homeric  poem  or  vision  of  Dante 
is  so  grand  as  that  will  be.  What  is  the  highest 
idea  of  God,  —  excluding  superstition,  anthropo- 
morphism, and  vague  impersonality  alike,  —  what 
is  the  fit  and  true  utterance  of  the  deepest  and 
divinest  heart  to  God,  —  this,  I  must  think,  may 
well  occupy  the  sublimest  meditations  of  human 
intellect  and  devotion.  Not  that  the  entire  Lit- 
urgy, however,  should  be  the  product  of  any  one 
man's  thought.  I  would  have  in  a  Liturgy  some  of 
the  time-hallowed  prayers,  some  of  the  Litanies 
6 


82  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

that  have  echoed  in  the  ear  of  all  the  ages  from 
the  early  Christian  time.  The  churches  of  Rome 
and  England  and  Germany  have  some  of  these ; 
and  in  a  service-book,  supposed  to  be  compiled 
by  the  Chevalier  Bunsen,  there  are  others,  —  pray- 
ers of  Basil  and  of  Jerome  and  Augustine,  and  of 
the  old  German  time.  There  are  beautiful  things 
in  them,  —  especially  in  the  old  German  prayers 
there  is  something  very  filial,  free,  and  touching ; 
but  they  would  want  a  great  deal  of  expurgation, 
and  I  believe  that  better  prayers  are  uttered  to- 
day than  were  ever  heard  before ;  and  it  is  from 
uttered,  not  written  prayers,  if  I  could  do  so  by 
the  aid  of  a  stenographer  or  of  a  perfect  memory, 
that  I  would  draw  contributions  to  a  book  of  de- 
votion. What  would  I  not  give  for  some  prayers 
of  Channing  or  of  Henry  Ware !  —  some  that  I 
have  heard  by  their  own  firesides,  —  or  of  Dr. 
Gardiner  Spring,  or  of  Dr.  Payson  of  Portland, 
that  I  heard  in  church  many  years  ago,  —  for  the 
very  words  that  fell  from  their  lips !  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  right  prayers  were  ever  composed, 
or  ever  will  be. 

After  the  dedication  of  our  church  I  went  on 
with  my  duties  for  three  years,  and  then  again 
broke  down  in  health,  able  indeed,  that  is,  with 
physical  strength,  to  preach,  but  not  able  to  write 
sermons.  The  congregation  increased  ;  many  of 
its  members  became  com.municants ;  in  the  last 
year  before  I  went  abroad  once  more,  the  church 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  83 

was  crowded ;  in  the  evening  especially,  the  aisles 
as  well  as  pews  were  sometimes  filled. 

It  was  this  fulness  of  the  attendance  in  the 
evening  that  reconciled  me  to  a  second  service; 
especially  it  was  that  many  strangers  came,  to 
whom  I  had  no  other  opportunity  to  declare  my 
views  of  religion.  For  I  judge  that,  for  any  given 
congregation,  one  service  of  worship,  and  of  medi- 
tation such  as  the  sermon  is  designed  to  awaken, 
is  enough  for  one  day.  In  the  "  Christian  Ex- 
aminer," —  two  or  three  years  after  this,  I  think  it 
was, —  I  published  an  article  on  this  subject,  in 
which  I  maintained  that  there  was  too  much 
preaching,  —  too  much  preaching  for  the  preacher, 
and  too  much  preaching  for  the  people.  It  was 
received  with  great  surprise  and  little  favor,  I 
believe,  at  the  time ;  but  since  then  not  a  few 
persons,  both  of  the  clergy  and  laity,  have  ex- 
pressed to  me  their  entire  agreement  with  it. 
What  I  said,  and  say,  is  that  one  sermon,  one  dis- 
course of  solemn  meditation,  designed  to  make  a 
distinct  and  abiding  impression  upon  the  heart 
and  life,  is  all  that  anybody  should  preach  or  hear 
in  one  day,  and  that  the  other  part  of  Sunday 
should  be  used  for  conference  or  Sunday-school, 
or  instructive  lecture,  or  something  with  a  charac- 
ter and  purpose  different  from  the  morning  medi- 
tation,—  something  to  instruct  the  people  in  the 
history,  or  evidences,  or  theory,  or  scriptural  ex- 
position of  our  religion.  Indeed,  I  did  this  my- 
self as  often  as  I  was  able,  though  it  tried  the 


84  AutobiograpJiy  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

religious  prejudices  of  some  of  my  people,  and 
my  own  too,  about  what  a  sermon  should  be.  I 
discussed  the  morals  of  trade,  political  morality, 
civic  duty,  —  that  of  voters,  jurymen,  etc.,  — 
social  questions,  peace  and  war,  and  the  problem 
of  the  human  life  and  condition.  Some  portions 
of  these  last  were  incorporated  into  the  course  of 
Lowell  Lectures  on  this  subject,  which  I  after- 
wards published.  And  it  is  high  time  to  take 
this  matter  into  serious  consideration;  for  in  all 
churches  where  the  hearing  of  two  or  three  ser- 
mons on  Sunday  is  not  held  to  be  a  positive  re- 
ligious duty,  the  second  service  is  falling  away 
into  a  thin  and  spectral  shadow  of  public  worship, 
discouraging  to  the  attendants  upon  it,  and  dis- 
honoring to  religion  itself 

The  pastor  of  a  large  congregation  in  the  city 
of  New  York  has  no  sinecure.  The  sermons  to 
be  written,  the  parochial  visiting,  —  once  a  year, 
at  least,  to  each  family,  and  weekly  or  daily  to  the 
sick  and  afflicted, —  my  walks  commonly  extended 
to  from  four  to  seven  miles  a  day,  —  the  calls  of 
the  poor  and  distressed,  laboring  under  every 
kind  of  difficulty,  the  charities  to  be  distributed, 

—  I  was  in  part  the  almoner  of  the  congregation, 

—  the  public  meetings,  the  committees  to  be  at- 
tended, the  constantly  widening  circle  of  social 
relations  and  engagements,  the  pressure,  in  fine, 
of  all  sorts  of  claims  upon  time  and  thought,  —  all 
this  made  a  very  laborious  life  for  me.  Yet  it  was 
pleasant,  and  very  interesting.     I  thought  when  I 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  85 

first  went  to  the  great  city,  —  when  I  first  found 
myself  among  those  busy  throngs,  none  of  whom 
knew  me,  —  beside  those  ranges  of  houses,  none  of 
which  had  any  association  for  me,  —  that  I  should 
never  feel  at  home  in  New  York.  But  it  became 
very  home-like  to  me.  The  walls  became  familiar 
to  my  eye ;  the  pavement  grew  soft  to  my  foot, 
I  built  me  a  house,  that  first  requisite  for  feeling 
at  home.  I  chanced  to  see  a  spot  that  I  fancied : 
it  was  in  Mercer  Street,  between  Waverley  Place 
and  Eighth  Street,  just  in  the  centre  of  everything, 
a  step  from  Broadway  and  my  church,  just  out  of 
the  noise  of  everything;  there  we  passed  many 
happy  days.  I  have  been  quite  a  builder  of 
houses  in  my  life.  I  built  one  in  New  Bedford. 
My  study  had  the  loveliest  outlook  upon  Buz- 
zard's Bay  and  the  Elizabeth  Islands,  —  I  shall 
never  have  such  a  study  again.  Oh,  the  joy  of 
that  sea  view  !  When  I  came  to  it  again,  after  a 
vacation's  absence,  it  moved  me  like  the  sight  of 
an  old  friend.  And  I  have  built  about  the  old 
home  in  Sheffield,  till  it  is  almost  a  new  erection. 

But  to  return  to  New  York :  I  was  very  happy 
there.  I  had  a  congregation,  I  believe,  that  was 
interested  in  me.  I  made  friends  that  were  and 
are  dear  to  me.  When  I  first  went  to  New  York, 
I  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Artists'  Club,  or 
Club  of  the  Twenty- one,  as  it  was  called ;  by  what 
good  fortune  or  favor  I  know  not,  for  I  was  the 
first  clergyman  that  had  ever  been  a  member  of 
it.     It  consisted  of  artists  and  other  gentlemen, 


86  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Deivey. 

—  an  equal  number  of  each.  Cole  and  Durand 
and  Ingham  and  Inman  and  Chapman  and  Bry- 
ant and  Verplanck  and  Charles  Hoffman  were  in 
it  when  I  first  became  acquainted  with  it;  and 
younger  artists  have  been  brought  into  it  since, 
Gray  and  Huntingdon  and  Kensett,  and  other 
non-professional  gentlemen  interested  in  art,  and 
the  meetings  have  been  always  pleasant.  It  was 
a  kind  of  heart's  home  to  me  while  I  lived  in 
New  York,  and  I  always  resort  to  it  now  when  I 
go  there,  sure  of  welcome  and  kindly  greeting.^ 

Then,  again,  I  had  in  William  Ware,  the  pastor 
of  the  First  Church,  a  friend  and  fellow-laborer, 
than  whom,  if  I  were  to  seek  the  world  over,  I 
could  not  find  one  more  to  my  liking.  Our  friend- 
ship was  as  intimate  as  I  ever  had  with  any  man, 
and  our  constant  intercourse,  —  to  enter  his  house 
as  freely  as  my  own,  —  his  coming  to  mine  was 
as  a  sunbeam,  as  cheering  and  undisturbing,  —  I 
thought  I  could  not  get  along  without  it.  But  I 
was  obliged  to  do  so.  He  had  often  talked  of 
resigning  his  situation,  and  I  had  obtained  from 
him  a  promise  that  he  would  never  do  it  without 
consulting  me.  Great  was  my  surprise,  then,  to 
learn,  one  day  while  in  the  country,  that  he  had 
sent  in  his  resignation.  My  first  word  to  him  on 
going  to  town  was,  "  What  is  this  ?  You  have 
broken  your  promise."     "  I  did  not  consult  even 

1  The  well-known  Century  Club  of  New  York  is  the  modern 
development  of  what  was  first  known  as  the  Sketch  Club,  or  the 
XXL  — M.  E.  D. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  87 

my  father  or  my  brothers,"  was  his  reply.  I  could 
say  nothing.  The  truth  was,  that  things  had  come 
to  that  pass  in  his  mind  that  the  case  was  beyond 
consultation.  He  considered  himself  as  having 
made  a  fatal  mistake  in  his  choice  of  a  profession. 
I  have  some  very  touching  letters  from  him,  in 
which  he  dwells  upon  it  as  his  "  mistake  for  a  life." 
His  nature  was  essentially  artistic ;  he  would  have 
made  a  fine  painter.  He  could  have  worked  be- 
tween silent  walls.  He  could  write  admirably,  as  all 
the  world  knows ;  I  need  only  mention  "  Zenobia" 
and  "Aurelian"  and  "  Probus."  But  there  was  a  cer- 
tain delicacy  and  shrinking  in  his  nature  that  made 
it  difficult  for  him  to  pour  himself  out  freely  in  the 
presence  of  an  audience.  And  yet  a  congrega- 
tion, consisting  in  part  of  some  of  the  most  culti- 
vated persons  in  New  York,  held  him,  as  preacher 
and  pastor,  in  an  esteem  and  affection  that  any 
man  might  have  envied. 

And  to  repair  the  circle  of  my  happy  social 
relations,  broken  by  Ware's  departure,  came  Bel- 
lows to  fill  his  place.  I  gave  him  the  right  hand 
of  fellowship  at  his  ordination ;  and  I  remember 
saying  in  it,  that  I  would  not  have  believed  it  pos- 
sible for  me  to  welcome  anybody  to  the  place  of 
his  predecessor  with  the  pleasure  with  which  I 
welcomed  him.  The  augury  of  that  hour  has  been 
fulfilled  in  most  delightful  intercourse  with  one  of 
the  noblest  and  most  generous  men  I  ever  knew. 
With  a  singularly  clear  insight  and  penetration 


88  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

into  the  deepest  things  of  our  spiritual  nature, 
with  an  earnestness  and  fearlessness  breaking 
through  all  technical  rules  and  theories,  with 
a  buoyancy  and  cheerfulness  that  nothing  can 
dampen,  with  a  fitness  and  readiness  for  all  occa- 
sions, his  power  as  a  preacher  and  his  pleasant- 
ness as  a  companion  have  made  him  one  of  the 
most  marked  men  of  his  day. 

As  to  my  general  intercourse  with  society, 
whether  in  New  York  or  elsewhere,  I  have  always 
felt  that  its  freedom  lay  under  disagreeable  re- 
strictions, if  not  under  a  lay-interdict;  and  when 
travelling  as  a  stranger  I  have  always  chosen  not 
to  be  known  as  a  clergyman,  and  commonly  was 
not.  I  once  had  a  curious  and  striking  illustration 
of  the  feeling  about  clergymen  to  which  I  am 
alluding.  I  was  invited  by  Mr.  Prescott  Hall,  the 
eminent  lawyer,  to  meet  the  Kent  Club  at  his 
house,  —  a  law  club  then  just  formed.  As  I  ar- 
rived a  little  before  the  company,  I  said  to  him : 
"  Mr.  Hall,  I  am  sorry  you  have  formed  this  kind 
of  club,  —  a  club  exclusively  of  lawyers.  In  Bos- 
ton they  have  one  of  long  standing,  consisting  of 
four  professions,  and  four  members  of  each,  that 
is,  of  lawyers,  doctors,  clergymen,  and  merchants." 

—  "To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  answered,  "  I  don't 
like  the  clergy."  I  said  that  I  could  conceive  of 
reasons,  but  I  should  like  to  hear  him  state  them. 

—  "Why,"  said  he,  "they  come  over  me;  they 
don't  put  themselves  on  a  level  with  me ;  they  talk 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  89 

ex  cathedral  I  was  obliged  to  bow  my  head  in 
acquiescence ;  but  I  did  say,  "  I  think  I  know  a 
class  of  clergymen  of  whom  that  is  not  true;  and, 
besides,  if  I  could  bring  all  the  clergy  of  this  city 
into  clubs  of  the  Boston  description,  I  believe  those 
habits  would  be  broken  up  in  a  single  year." 

There  were  two  men  who  came  to  our  church 
whose  coming  seemed  to  be  by  chance,  but  was 
of  great  interest  to  me,  for  I  valued  them  greatly. 
They  were  Peter  Cooper  and  Joseph  Curtis. 
Neither  of  them,  then,  belonged  to  any  religious 
society,  or  regularly  attended  upon  any  church. 
They  happened  to  be  walking  down  Broadway 
one  Sunday  evening  as  the  congregation  were 
entering  Stuyvesant  Hall,  where  we  then  tempo- 
rarily worshipped,  and  they  said,  "  Let  us  go  in 
here,  and  see  what  this  is."  When  they  came  out, 
as  they  both  told  me,  they  said  to  one  another, 
"  This  is  the  place  for  us  "  And  they  immedi- 
ately connected  themselves  with  the  congrega- 
tion, to  be  among  its  most  valued  members. 

Peter  Cooper  was  even  then  meditating  that 
plan  of  a  grand  Educational  Institute  which  he 
afterwards  carried  out.  He  was  engaged  in  a 
large  and  successful  business,  and  his  one  idea — • 
which  he  often  discussed  with  me  —  was  to  obtain 
the  means  of  building  that  Institute.  A  man  of 
the  gentlest  nature  and  the  simplest  habits ;  yet 
his  religious  nature  was  his  most  remarkable 
quahty.     It  seemed  to  breathe  through  his  life  as 


90  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

fresh  and  tender  as  if  it  were  in  some  holy  retreat, 
instead  of  a  Hfe  of  business.  Mr.  Cooper  has 
become  a  distinguished  man,  much  engaged  in 
pubHc  affairs,  and  much  in  society.  I  have  seen 
him  but  Httle  of  late  years ;  but  I  trust  he  has  not 
lost  that  which  is  worth  more  than  all  the  dis- 
tinctions and  riches  in  the  world. 

Joseph  Curtis  was  a  man  much  less  known 
generally,  and  yet,  in  one  respect,  much  more,  — 
and  that  was  in  the  sphere  of  the  public  schools. 
He  did  more,  I  think,  than  any  man  to  bring  up 
the  free  schools  of  New  York  to  such  a  point  as 
compelled  our  Boston  visitors  to  confess  that 
they  were  not  a  whit  inferior  to  their  own.  And 
his  were  voluntary  and  unpaid  services,  though  his 
means  were  always  moderate.  He  neither  had, 
nor  made,  nor  cared  to  make,  a  fortune.  He 
cared  for  the  schools  as  for  nothing  else ;  and 
there  is  no  wiser  or  nobler  care.  For  more  than 
twenty  years  he  spent  half  of  his  time  in  the 
schools,  walking  among  them  with  such  intelli- 
gent and  gentle  oversight  as  to  win  universal  con- 
fidence and  affection,  so  that  he  was  commonly 
called,  by  teachers  and  pupils,  "  Father  Curtis." 

At  the  same  time,  his  hand  and  heart  were 
open  to  every  call  of  charity.  I  remember  once 
making  him  umpire  between  me  and  Horace 
Greeley,  the  only  time  that  I  ever  met  the  latter 
in  company.  He  was  saying,  after  his  fashion  in 
the  "Tribune," — he  was  from  nature  and  training 
a  Democrat,  and  had  no  natural  right  ever  to  be  in 


Autobiography -of  Dr.  Dewey.  91 

the  Whig  party,  —  he  was  saying  that  the  miseries 
of  the  poor  in  New  York  were  all  owing  to  the  rich  ; 
when  I  said,  "  Mr.  Greeley,  here  sits  Mr.  Joseph 
Curtis,  who  has  walked  the  streets  of  New  York 
for  more  years  than  you  and  I  have  been  here, 
and  I  propose  that  we  listen  to  him."  He  could 
not  refuse  to  make  the  appeal,  and  so  I  put  a 
series  of  questions  upon  the  point  to  Mr.  Curtis. 
The  answers  did  not  please  Mr.  Greeley.  He 
broke  in  once  or  twice,  saying,  "  Am  not  I  to 
have  a  chance  to  speak?"  But  I  persisted  and 
said,  "  Nay,  but  we  have  agreed  to  listen  to  Mr. 
Curtis."  The  upshot  was,  that,  in  his  opinion, 
the  miseries  of  the  poor  in  New  York  were  not 
owing  to  the  rich,  but  mainly  to  themselves ;  that 
there  was  ordinarily  remunerative  labor  enough 
for  them ;  and  that,  but  in  exceptional  cases  of 
sickness  and  especial  misfortune,  those  who  fell 
into  utter  destitution  and  beggary  came  to  that 
pass  through  their  idleness,  their  recklessness,  or 
their  vices.  That  was  always  my  opinion.  They 
besieged  our  door  from  morning  till  night,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  help  them,  to  look  after  them,  to 
go  to  their  houses ;  my  family  was  worn  out  with 
these  offices.  But  I  looked  upon  beggary  as,  in 
all  ordinary  cdiSQs,  prima  facie  evidence  that  there 
was  something  wrong  behind  it. 

The  great  evil  and  mischief  lay  in  indiscrimi- 
nate charity.  Many  were  the  walks  we  took  to 
avoid  this,  and  often  with  little  satisfaction.  I 
have  walked  across  the  whole  breadth  of  the  city, 


92  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

on  a  winter's  day,  to  find  a  man  dressed  better 
than  I  was,  — with  blue  broadcloth  and  metal  but- 
tons and  new  boots,  —  and  just  sitting  down  to  a 
very  comfortable  dinner.  The  wife  was  rather 
taken  aback  by  my  entrance,  —  it  was  she  who 
had  come  to  me,  —  and  the  man,  of  course,  must 
say  something  for  himself,  and  this  it  was :  He 
"  had  fallen  behind  of  late,  in  consequence  of  not 
receiving  his  rents  from  England.  He  was  the 
owner  of  two  houses  in  Sheffield."  —  "  Well,"  I 
said,  "  if  that  is  so,  you  are  better  ofif  than  I  am ;  " 
and  I  took  a  not  very  courteous  leave  of  them. 

To  give  help  in  a  better  way,  an  Employment 
Society  was  formed  in  our  church  to  cut  out  and 
prepare  garments  for  poor  women  to  sew,  and  be 
paid  for  it  A  salesroom  was  opened  in  Amity 
Street,  to  sell  the  articles  made  up,  at  a  trifling 
addition  to  their  cost.  The  ladies  of  the  congre- 
gation were  in  attendance  at  the  church,  in  a 
large  ante-roorn,  to  prepare  the  garments  and 
give  them  out,  and  a  hundred  or  more  poor 
women  came  every  Thursday  to  bring  their  work 
and  receive  more ;  and  they  have  been  coming  to 
this  day.  It  was  thought  an  excellent  plan,  and 
was  adopted  by  other  churches.  The  ladies  of 
All  Souls  joined  in  it,  and  the  institution  is  now 
transferred  to  that  church. 

One  day,  in  the  winter  I  think  of  1837,  I  heard 
of  an  association  of  gentlemen  formed  to  investi- 
gate this  terrible  subject  of  mendicity  in  our  city, 
and  to  find  some  way  of  methodizing  our  chari- 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  93' 

ties  and  protecting  them  from  abuse.  I  went 
down  immediately  to  Robert  Minturn,  who,  I  was 
told,  took  a  leading  part  in  this  movement,  and 
told  him  that  I  had  come  post-haste  to  inquire 
what  he  and  his  friends  were  doing,  for  that  noth- 
ing in  our  city  life  pressed  upon  my  mind  like 
this.  I  used,  indeed,  to  feel  at  times  —  and  Bel- 
lows had  the  same  feeling  —  as  if  I  would  fain  fling 
up  my  regular  professional  duties,  and  plunge 
into  this  great  sea  of  city  pauperism  and  misery. 

Mr.  Minturn  told  me  that  he,  with  four  or  five 
others,  had  taken  up  this  subject ;  that,  for  more 
than  a  year  past,  they  had  met  together  one 
evening  in  the  week  to  confer  with  one  another 
upon  it;  that  they  had  opened  a  correspondence 
with  all  our  great  cities,  and  with  some  in  Eu- 
rope ;  and  sometimes  had  sent  out  agents  to 
inquire  into  the  methods  that  had  been  adopted 
to  stem  these  enormous  city  evils.  Mr.  Minturn 
wished  me  to  join  them,  and  I  expected  to  be 
formally  invited  to  do  so ;  but  I  was  not,  nor  to  a 
great  public  meeting  called  soon  after,  under 
their  auspices.  I  suppose  there  was  no  personal 
feeling  against  me,  —  only  an  Orthodox  one. 
Well,  no  matter.  It  was  a  noble  enterprise, 
better  than  any  sectarianism  ever  suggested,  and 
worthy  of  record,  especially  considering  its  spon- 
taneity, labor,  and  expense. 

Their  plan,  when  matured,  was  this :  to  district 
the  city ;  to  appoint  one  person  in  each  district 
to  receive  all  applications  for  aid ;  to  sell  tickets 


94  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

of  various  values,  which  we  could  buy  and  give 
the  applicant  at  our  doors,  to  be  taken  to  the 
agent,  who  would  render  the  needed  help,  ac- 
cording to  his  judgment.  Of  course  the  beggars 
did  not  like  it.  I  found  that,  half  the  time,  they 
would  not  take  the  tickets.  It  would  give  them 
some  trouble,  but  the  special  trouble,  doubtless, 
with  the  reckless  and  dishonest  among  them,  was 
that  it  would  prevent  them  from  availing  them- 
selves of  the  aid  of  twenty  families,  all  acting  in 
ignorance  of  what  each  was  doing. 

Jonathan  Goodhue  was  a  man  whom  nobody 
that  knew  him  can  ever  forget.  Tall  and  fine- 
looking  in  person,  simple  and  earnest  in  manners, 
with  such  a  warmth  in  his  accost  that  to  shake 
hands  with  him  was  to  feel  happier  for  it  all  the 
day  after.  I  remember  passing  down  Wall  Street 
one  day  when  old  Robert  Lenox  was  standing 
by  his  side.  After  one  of  those  warm  greetings, 
I  passed  on,  and  Mr.  Lenox  said,  "  Who  is 
that?"  —  "Mr.  Dewey,  a  clergyman  of  a  church 
in  the  city."  —  "Of  which  church?"  said  Mr. 
Lenox.  —  "  Of  the  Unitarian  church."  —  "  The 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  him  !  "  said  the  old  man. 
It  was  a  good  prayer,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  was 
kindly  made. 

Alas  !  what  I  am  writing  is  a  necrology :  they 
are  all  gone  of  whom  I  speak.  George  Curtis,  too ; 
he  died  before  I  left  the  Church  of  the  Messiah, 
—  died  in  his  prime.     George  William  Curtis  is 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  95 

his  son,  well  known  as  one  of  our  most  graceful 
writers  and  eloquent  men :  something  hereditary 
in  that,  for  his  father  had  one  of  the  clearest 
heads  I  knew,  and  a  gifted  tongue,  though  he 
was  too  modest  to  be  a  great  talker.  He  could 
make  a  good  speech,  and  once  he  made  one  that 
was  more  effective  than  I  could  have  wished. 
The  question  was  about  electing  Thomas  Starr 
King  to  be  my  colleague.  The  congregation  was 
immensely  taken  with  him ;  but  Mr.  Curtis  op- 
posed on  the  ground  that  King  was  a  Universal- 
ist,  and  he  carried  everything  before  him.  He 
said,  as  it  was  reported  to  me,  "  I  was  born  a 
Unitarian  ;  I  have  lived  a  Unitarian  ;  and,  if  God 
please,  I  mean  to  die  a  Unitarian  !  "  He  had  the 
old-fashioned,  and  indeed  well-founded,  dislike  of 
Universalism.  But  all  that  is  changed  now,  — 
was  changing  then ;  for  the  Universalists  have 
given  up  their  preaching  of  no  retribution  here- 
after. They  are  in  other  respects,  also.  Unitari- 
ans, and  the  two  bodies  affiliate  and  are  friends. 

Moses  Grinnell  was  a  marked  man  in  New 
York.  A  successful  and  popular  merchant,  his 
generosity  was  ample  as  his  means ;  and  I  have 
known  him  in  circumstances  that  required  a 
higher  generosity  than  that  of  giving  money,  and 
he  stood  the  test  perfectly.  His  mind,  too,  grew 
with  his  rise  in  the  world.  He  was  sent  to  Con- 
gress, and  his  acquaintance  from  that  time  with 
many  distinguished  men  gave  a  new  turn  to  his 
thoughts  and  a  higher  tone  to  his  character  and 


96  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

conversation.  At  his  house,  where  I  was  often  a 
guest,  I  used  to  meet  Washington  Irving,  whose 
niece  he  married.  Of  course  everybody  knows 
of  Washington  Irving ;  but  there  are  one  or  two 
anecdotes,  of  which  I  doubt  whether  they  appear 
in  his  biography,  and  which  I  am  tempted  to  re- 
late. He  told  me  that  he  once  went  to  a  theatre 
in  London  to  hear  some  music,  (They  use 
theatres  in  London  as  music-halls,  and  I  went  to 
one  myself,  once,  to  hear  Paganini,  and  enjoyed 
an  evening  that  I  can  never  forget.  His  one 
string  —  for  he  broke  all  the  others  —  was  a 
heart-string.)  Mr.  Irving  said  that  on  entering 
the  theatre  he  found  in  the  pit  only  three  or  four 
English  gentleman,  who  had  evidently  come 
early,  as  he  had,  to  find  a  good  place.  Accord- 
ingly, he  took  his  seat  near  them,  when  one  of 
them  rather  loftily  said,  "  That  seat  is  engaged, 
sir."  He  got  up  and  took  a  seat  a  little  farther 
off,  when  they  said,  "  That,  too,  is  engaged." 
Again  he  meekly  rose,  an4  took  another  place. 
Pretty  soon  one  of  the  party  said,  "  Do  you  re- 
member Washington  Irving's  description  of  a 
band  of  music?"  (It  is  indeed  a  most  amusing 
caricature.  One  of  the  performers  had  blown  his 
visnomy  to  a  point.  Another  blew  as  if  he  were 
blowing  his  whole  estate,  real  and  personal, 
through  his  instrument,  I  quote  from  memory.) 
Mr.  Irving  said  they  went  over  with  the  whole 
description,  with  much  entertainment  and  laugh- 
ter.    They  little  knew  that  they  had  thrust  aside 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  97 

the  author  of  their  pleasure,  who  sat  there,  like 
the  great  CaHph,  incognito,  and  they  would  have 
paid  him  homage  enough  if  they  had  known 
him. 

Mrs.  S.  told  me  that  one  evening  he  strolled  up 
to  their  piazza,  —  they  lived  near  to  one  another 
in  the  country,  —  and  fell  into  one  of  those  easy 
and  unpremeditated  talks,  in  which,  to  be  sure, 
he  was  always  most  pleasant,  when  he  said, 
among  other  things,  "  Don't  be  anxious  about 
the  education  of  your  daughters :  they  will  do 
very  well ;  don't  teach  them  so  many  things,  — 
teach  them  one  thing."  — "  What  is  that,  Mr. 
Irving?"  she  asked.  —  "Teach  them,"  he  said, 
"  to  be  easily  pleased." 

Bryant,  too,  everybody  knows  of  Now  he  is 
chiefly  known  as  poet ;  but  when  I  went  to  New 
York  people  thought  most  about  him  as  editor  of 
the  "  Evening  Post,"  and  that  with  little  enough 
complacency  in  the  circles  where  I  moved. 
How  many  a  fight  I  had  for  him  with  my  Whig 
friends !  For  he  was  my  parishioner,  and  it  was 
known  that  we  were  much  together.  The  "  Even- 
ing Post "  was  a  thorn  in  their  sides,  and  every 
now  and  then,  when  some  keen  editorial  appeared 
in  it,  they  used  to  say,  "  There !  what  do  you 
say  of  that  ?  "  I  always  said  the  same  thing : 
"  Whether  you  and  I  like  what  he  says  or  not, 
whether  we  think  it  fair  or  not,  of  one  thing  be 
sure,  —  he  is  a  man  of  perfect  integrity ;  he  is  so 
almost  to  a  fault,  if  that  be  possible,  regarding 
7 


98  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

neither  feelings  nor  friendships,  nor  anything  else, 
when  justice  and  truth  are  in  question." 

Speaking  of  Bryant  brings  to  mind  Audu- 
bon, the  celebrated  naturalist.  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  him  through  his  family's  attending 
our  church,  and  one  day  proposed  to  Mr.  Bry- 
ant to  go  with  me  to  see  him.  Seating  himself 
before  the  poet,  Audubon  quietly  said,  "  You 
are  our  flower,"  —  a  very  pretty  compliment,  I 
thought,  from  a  man  of  the  woods. 

I  happened  to  fall  in  with  Mr.  Audubon  one 
day  in  the  cars  going  to  Philadelphia,  when  he 
was  setting  out,  I  think,  on  his  last  great  tour 
across  the  American  wilderness.  He  described 
to  me  his  outfit,  to  be  assumed  when  he  arrived 
at  the  point  of  departure,  a  suit  of  dressed  deer- 
skin, his  only  apparel.  In  this  he  was  to  thread 
the  forest  and  swim  the  rivers ;  with  his  rifle,  of 
course,  and  powder  and  shot ;  a  tin  case  to  hold 
his  drawing-paper  and  pencils,  and  a  blanket. 
Meat,  the  produce  of  the  chase,  was  to  be  his 
only  food,  and  the  earth  his  bed,  for  two  or  three 
months.  I  said,  shrinking  from  such  hardship, 
"  I  could  n't  stand  that."  —  "  If  you  were  to  go 
with  me,"  he  replied,  "  I  would  bring  you  out 
on  the  other  side  a  new  man."  He  broke  down 
under  it,  however,  rather  prematurely ;  for  in  that 
condition  I  saw  him  once  more,  —  his  health  and 
faculties  shattered,  —  near  the  end  of  his  life. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  99 

But  to  return,  —  turning  and  returning  upon 
one's  self  must  be  the  course  of  an  autobiography, 
—  my  health  having  a  second  time  completely 
failed,  I  determined  again  to  go  abroad ;  and  to 
make  the  measure  of  relief  more  complete,  I 
determined  to  go  for  two  years,  and  to  take 
my  family  with  me.  The  sea  was  a  horror  to 
me,  but  beyond  it  lay  pleasant  lands  that  I 
wanted  to  look  upon  once  more,  galleries  of  art 
by  which  I  wished  to  sit  down  and  study  at  my 
leisure,  and,  above  all,  rest:  I  wanted  to  be  where 
no  one  could  call  on  me  to  preach  or  lecture,  to 
do  this  or  do  that. 

We  sailed  for  Havre  in  October,  1841,  passed 
the  winter  in  Paris,  the  summer  following  in 
Switzerland,  the  next  winter  in  Italy,  and,  return- 
ing through  Germany,  spent  two  months  in  Eng- 
land, and  came  home  in  August,  1843. 

While  in  Geneva  I  was  induced  for  my  health 
to  make  trial  of  the  "  water-cure,"  and  first  to  try 
what  they  call  the  "  Arve  bath."  The  campagne 
at  Champel,  where  we  were  passing  the  summer, 
is  washed  for  half  a  mile  by  the  Arve.  In  hot 
August  days  I  walked  slowly  by  the  river-bank, 
with  cloak  on,  till  a  moderate  perspiration  was 
induced,  then  jumped  in,  —  and  out  as  quick! 
for  the  river,  though  it  had  run  sixty  miles  from 
its  source,  seemed  as  cold  as  when  it  left  the 
glacier  of  the  Arveiron  at  Chamouni.  Experi- 
encing no  ill  effect,  however,  I  determined  to  try 
the  regular  water-cure,  and  for  this  purpose,  in 


100  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

our  travel  through  Switzerland,  stopped  at  Mey- 
ringen  in  the  Vale  of  Hash.  I  was  "  packed,"  — 
bundled  up  in  bed  blankets  every  morning  at 
daybreak,  went  through  the  consequent  furnace 
of  heat  and  drench  of  perspiration  for  two  or 
three  hours,  —  then  was  taken  by  a  servant  on 
his  back,  me  and  my  wrappages,  the  whole  bun- 
dle, and  carried  down  to  the  great  bath,  only  6°  of 
Reaumur  above  ice  (45°  Fahrenheit),  plunged 
in,  got  out  again  in  no  deliberate  way.  was  pushed 
under  a  shower-bath  of  the  same  glacier  water, 
fought  my  way  out  of  that,  at  arm's  end  with  the 
attendant,  when  he  enveloped  me  in  warm,  dry 
sheets,  and  made  me  comfortable  in  one  minute. 
It  was  of  no  use,  however.  My  brain  grew  more 
nervous,  the  doctor  agreed  that  it  did  not  suit 
me,  and  shortly  I  gave  it  up. 

At  Rome  we  were  introduced  with  a  small 
American  party  to  the  Pope,  Gregory  XVI.  It 
was  just  after  the  Carnival  and  just  before  Lent. 
The  old  man  expressed  his  pleasure  that  the  peo- 
ple had  enjoyed  themselves  in  Carnival,  "  But 
now,"  said  he,  "  I  suppose  a  great  many  of  them 
will  find  themselves  out  of  health  in  Lent,  and 
will  want  indulgences."  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing how  much  that  last  was  like  a  Puritan  divine. 

What  a  Hfe  is  life  in  Rome !  —  not  common, 
not  like  any  other,  but  as  if  the  pressure  of  stu- 
pendous and  crowding  histories  we're  upon  every 
day.  A  presence  haunts  you  that  is  more  than 
all  you  see.     We  Americans,  with  some  invited 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  loi 

guests,  celebrated  Washington's  birthday  by  a 
dinner.  In  a  speech  I  said,  "  I  was  asked  the 
other  day,  what  struck  me  most  in  Rome,  and 
I  answered,  — '  To  think  that  this  is  Rome  !  '  " 
Lucien  Bonaparte,  who  sat  opposite  me  at  table, 
bowed  his  head  with  emphasis,  as  if  he  said,  "  That 
is  true."  He  was  entitled  to  know  what  great 
historic  memories  are ;  and  those  of  his  family, 
criticise  them  as  we  may,  —  and  I  am  not  one  of 
their  admirers,  —  do  not,  perhaps,  fall  below 
much  of  the  Roman  imperial  grandeur. 

On  coming  to  England  from  the  Continent, 
among  many  things  to  admire,  there  were  two 
things  we  were  especially  thankful  for,  —  com- 
fort and  hospitality.  We  had  not  been  in  London 
half  a  day  before  I  had  rented  a  furnished  house, 
and  we  were  established  in  it.  That  is,  the  owner, 
occupying  the  basement,  gave  us  the  parlors 
above  and  ample  sleeping-rooms,  and  the  use  of 
her  servants,  —  we  defraying  the  expense  of  our 
table,  —  for  so  much  a  month.  We  took  posses- 
sion of  our  apartments  an  hour  after  we  had 
engaged  them,  and  had  nothing  to  do  but  order 
our  dinner  and  walk  out ;  and  all  this  for  less,  I 
think,  than  it  would  have  cost  us  to  live  at  a  good 
boarding-house  in  Broadway. 

We  visited  various  parts  of  England,  —  War- 
wick, Kenilworth,  Oxford,  Birmingham,  and  Liv- 
erpool, and  made  acquaintance  with  persons 
whom  to  know  was  worth  going  far,  and  whom 


I02  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

to  remember   has  been  a  constant  pleasure  ever 
since. 

Well,  we  came  back  in  August,  1843,  in  the 
steamer  "  Hibernia."  What  a  joy  to  return  home  ! 
We  landed  in  Boston.  The  railroad  across  Mas- 
sachusetts had  been  completed  during  our  ab- 
sence, and  brought  us  to  Sheffield  in  six  or  seven 
hours;  it  had  always  been  a  weary  journey 
before,  of  three  days  by  coach,  or  a  week  with 
our  own  horse.  A  few  days'  rest,  and  then  six 
or  eight  hours  more  took  us  to  New  York,  where 
we  found  the  water  fountains  opened ;  the  Croton 
had  been  brought  in  that  summer.  Did  it  not 
seem  all  very  fit  and  festal  to  us?  For  we  had 
come  home ! 

My  health,  however,  was  only  partially  re- 
established, and  the  recruiting  which  had  got 
lasted  me  for  constant  service  in  my  church  but 
three  years  more.  The  winter  of  1846-47  I  passed 
in  Washington,  serving  the  little  church  there. 
In  the  spring  I  returned  to  New  York,  struggled 
on  with  my  duties  in  the  church  for  another  year; 
in  the  spring  of  1848  sold  my  house,  and  retired  to 
the  Sheffield  home,  continuing  to  preach  occa- 
sionally in  New  York  for  a  number  of  months 
longer,  when,  early  in  1849,  my  connection  with 
the  Church  of  the  Messiah  was  finally  dissolved. 
I  would  willingly  have  remained  with  it  on  con- 
dition of  discharging  a  partial  service,  with  a  col- 
league to  assist  me :  it  was  the  only  chance  I  saw 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  103 

of  continuing  in  my  profession.  The  congrega- 
tion, at  my  instance,  had  sought  for  a  colleague, 
both  during  my  absence  in  Europe  and  in  the 
later  years  of  my  continuance  with  it,  but  had 
failed,  —  there  appearing  to  be  some  singular 
reluctance  in  our  young  preachers  to  enter 
into  that  relation,  —  and  there  seemed  nothing  for 
the  church  to  do  but  to  inaugurate  a  new 
ministration. 

It  was  in  this  crisis  of  my  worldly  affairs,  so 
trying  to  a  clergyman  who  is  dependent  on  his 
salary,  that  I  experienced  the  benefit  of  a  rule 
that  early  in  life  I  prescribed  to  myself;  and  that 
was,  always  to  lay  up  for  a  future  day  some  por- 
tion of  my  annual  income.  I  insisted  upon  it 
that,  with  as  much  foresight  as  the  ant  or  the  bee, 
I  might  be  allowed  without  question  so  to  use 
the  salary  appointed  to  me  as  to  make  some 
provision  for  the  winter-day  of  life,  or  for  the 
spring  that  would  come  after,  and  might  be  to 
others  bleak  and  cold  and  desolate  without  it. 
So  often  have  I  witnessed  this,  that  I  am  most 
heartily  thankful  that,  on  leaving  New  York,  I  was 
not  reduced  to  utter  destitution,  and  that  with 
some  moderate  exertion  I  am  able  to  provide  for 
our  modest  wants.  At  the  same  time  I  do  not 
feel  obliged  to  conceal  the  conviction,  and  never 
did,  that  the  service  of  religion  in  our  churches 
meets  with  no  just  remuneration.  One  may  suffer 
martyrdom  and  not  complain ;  but  I  do  not  think 
one  is  bound  to  say  that  it  is  a  reasonable  or 
pleasant  thing. 


I04  Autobiography  oj Dr.  Dewey. 

Another  thing  I  will  be  so  frank  as  to  say  on 
leaving  New  York,  and  that  is,  that  it  was  a  great 
moral  relief  to  me  to  lay  down  the  burden  of  the 
parochial  charge.  I  regretted  to  leave  New 
York ;  I  could  have  wished  to  live  and  die  among 
the  friends  I  had  there ;  I  should  make  it  my 
plan  now  to  spend  my  winters  there,  if  I  could 
afford  it:  but  that  particular  relation  to  society, 
—  no  man,  it  seems  to  me,  can  heartily  enter 
into  it  without  feeling  it  to  weigh  heavily  upon 
him.  Sympathy  with  affliction  is  the  trial-point 
of  the  clergyman's  office.  In  the  natural  and 
ordinary  relations  of  life  every  man  has  enough 
of  it.  But  to  take  into  one's  heart,  more  or 
less,  the  personal  and  domestic  sorrows  of  two 
or  three  hundred  families,  is  a  burden  which  no 
man  who  has  not  borne  it  can  conceive  of.  I 
sometimes  doubt  whether  it  was  ever  meant  that 
any  man,  or  at  least  any  profession  of  men, 
should  bear  it ;  whether  the  general  ministrations 
of  the  pulpit  to  affliction  should  not  suffice,  leav- 
ing the  application  to  the  hearer  in  this  case  as 
in  other  cases ;  whether  the  clergyman's  relations 
to  distress  and  suffering  should  not  be  like  every 
other  man's,  —  general  with  his  acquaintance, 
intimate  with  his  friends ;  whether,  if  there  were 
nothing  conventional  or  customary  about  this 
matter,  most  families  would  not  prefer  to  be  left 
to  themselves,  without  a  professional  call  from 
their  minister.  Suppose  that  there  were  no  rule 
with  regard  to  it ;  that  the  clergyman,  like  every 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  105 

other  man,  went  where  his  feehngs  carried  him, 
or  his  relations  warranted ;  that  it  was  no  more 
expected  of  him,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  call 
upon  a  bereaved  family,  than  of  any  other  of 
their  acquaintance,  —  would  not  that  be  a  better 
state  of  things?  I  am  sure  I  should  prefer  it,  if  I 
were  a  parishioner.  When,  indeed,  the  minister 
of  religion  wishes  to  turn  to  wise  account  the 
suffering  of  sickness  or  of  bereavement,  let  him 
choose  the  proper  time :  reflection  best  comes 
after;  it  is  not  in  the  midst  of  groans  and 
agonies,  of  sobs  and  lamentations,  that  deep 
religious  impressions  are  usually  made. 

I  have  a  suspicion  withal,  that  there  is  some- 
thing semi-barbaric  in  these  immediate  and  ur- 
gent ministrations  to  affliction,  —  something  of 
the  Indian  or  Oriental  fashion,  —  or  something 
derived  from  the  elder  time,  when  the  priest  was 
wise  and  the  people  rude.  For  ignorant  people, 
who  have  no  resources  nor  reflections  of  their 
own,  such  ministrations  may  be  proper  and 
needful  now.  I  may  be  in  the  wrong  about  all 
this.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  suspect  it.  There  is 
more  that  is  hereditary  in  us  all,  I  suppose,  than 
we  know.  My  father  never  could  bear  the  sight 
of  sickness  or  distress :  it  made  him  faint.  There 
is  a  firmness,  doubtless,  that  is  better  than  this ; 
but  I  have  it  not.  Very  likely  I  am  wrong.  My 
friend  Putnam  ^  lately  tried  to  convince  me  of  it, 
in  a  conversation  we  had ;  maintaining  that  the 

1  Rev.  George  Putnam,  D.  D.,  of  Roxbury,  Mass.  —  M.  E.  D. 


io6  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

parochial  relation  ought  not  to  be,  and  need  not 
be,  that  burden  upon  the  mind  which  I  found  it. 
And  I  really  feel  bound  on  such  a  point,  rather 
than  myself,  to  trust  him,  one  of  the  most  finely 
balanced  natures  I  ever  knew.  Why,  then,  do  I 
say  all  these  things?  Because,  in  giving  an  ac- 
count of  myself,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  and 
confess  what  a  jumble  of  pros  and  cons  I  am. 
Heaven  knows  I  have  tried  hard  to  keep  right ;  and 
if  I  am  not  as  full  as  I  can  hold  of  one-sided  and 
erratic  opinions,  I  think  it  some  praise.  ...  I 
do  strive  to  keep  in  my  mind  a  whole  rounded 
circle  of  truth  and  opinion.  It  would  be  pleasant 
to  let  every  mental  tendency  run  its  length; 
but  I  could  not  do  so.  It  may  be  pride  or  nar- 
rowness ;  but  I  must  keep  on  some  terms  with 
myself.  I  cannot  find  my  understanding  falling 
into  contradiction  with  the  judgments  it  formed 
last  month  or  last  year,  without  suspecting  not 
only  that  there  was  something  wrong  then,  but 
that  there  is  something  wrong  now,  to  be  re- 
sisted. That  "  there  is  a  mean  in  things  "  is  held, 
I  believe,  to  be  but  a  mean  apothegm  now-a-days ; 
but  I  do  not  hold  it  to  be  such.  All  my  life  I 
have  endeavored  to  hold  a  balance  against  the 
swayings  of  my  mind  to  the  one  side  and  the 
other  of  every  question.  I  suppose  this  appears 
in  my  course,  such  as  it  has  been,  in  religion, 
in  politics,  on  the  subject  of  slavery,  of  peace, 
of  temperance,  etc.  It  may  appear  to  be  dul- 
ness  or  tameness  or  time-serving  or  cowardice 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  107 

or  folly,   but   I  simply   do  not  believe  it  to  be 
either. 

But  to  return:  we  were  now  once  more  in 
Sheffield,  and  I  was  without  employment,  —  a 
condition  always  most  irksome  to  me.  Hard 
work,  I  am  persuaded,  is  the  highest  pleasure'  in 
the  world,  and,  from  the  day  when  I  was  in 
college,  vacations  have  always  proved  to  me  the 
most  tedious  times  in  my  life. 

I  determined,  therefore,  to  pursue  some  study 
as  far  as  I  could,  and  my  subject,  —  the  choice  of 
years  before,  —  was  the  philosophy  of  history 
and  humanity.  While  thus  engaged,  I  received 
an  invitation  from  Mr.  John  A.  Lowell,  trustee  of 
the  Lowell  Institute,  to  deliver  one  of  its  annual 
popular  courses  of  lectures  in  Boston.  This  im- 
mediately gave  a  direction  to  my  thoughts,  and 
by  the  winter  of  1850-51  I  was  prepared  to  write 
the  lectures,  which  I  ventured  to  denominate, 
"  Lectures  on  the  Problem  of  Human  Destiny," 
and  I  gave  them  in  the  autumn  of  185 1.  My  reason 
for  adopting  such  a  title  I  gave  in  the  first  lecture, 
and  I  might  add  that,  with  my  qualifications,  I 
was  ashamed  to  put  at  the  head  of  my  humble 
work  such  great  words  as  "  Philosophy  of  History 
and  Humanity,"  —  the  title  of  Herder's  celebrated 
treatise.  The  truth  was,  I  had,  or  thought  I 
had,  something  to  say  upon  the  philosophy  of 
the  human  condition,  —  upon  the  end  for  man, 
and  upon  the  only   way   in   which    it   could   be 


io8  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

achieved,  —  upon  the  terrible  problem  of  sin  and 
suffering  in  this  world,  —  and  I  tried  to  say  it.  I 
so  far  succeeded  with  my  audience  in  Boston,  that, 
either  from  report  of  that,  or  from  the  intrinsic 
interest  of  the  subject,  I  was  invited  to  repeat  the 
lectures  in  various  parts  of  the  country ;  and  dur- 
ing the  four  or  five  years  following  I  repeated 
them  fifteen  times,  —  in  New  Bedford,  New  York, 
Brooklyn,  Washington,  Baltimore,  St.  Louis, 
Louisville,  Madison,  Cincinnati,  Nashville,  Shef- 
field, Worcester,  Charleston,  S.  C,  New  Orleans, 
and  Savannah  in  part,  and  the  second  time  also, 
I  gave  them,  by  Mr,  Lowell's  request,  in  the 
Boston  Institute.  At  the  same  time,  I  was  not 
idle  as  a  preacher,  having  preached  every  Sunday 
in  the  places  where  I  lectured,  besides  serving 
the  church  in  Washington  two  long  winters.  I 
also  wrote  another  course  of  lectures  for  the 
Lowell  Institute,  on  the  "  Education  of  the  Hu- 
man Race,"  and  repeated  it  in  several  places. 

At  the  time  that  I  was  invited  to  Washington,  I 
received,  in  February,  185 1,  a  document  from  the 
Government,  which  took  me  so  much  by  sur- 
prise that  I  supposed  it  must  be  a  mistake.  It 
was  no  other  than  a  commission  as  chaplain  in 
the  Navy.  I  wrote  to  a  gentleman  in  Washing- 
ton, asking  him  to  make  inquiry  for  me,  and 
ascertain  what  it  meant.  He  replied  that  there 
was  no  mistake  about  it,  and  that  it  was  intended 
for  me.  I  then  concluded,  as  there  was  a  Navy 
Yard  in  Washington,  and  as  the  President,  Mr. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  109 

Fillmore,  attended  the  church  to  which  I  was  in- 
vited, that  he  intended  by  the  appointment  to 
help  both  the  church  and  me,  and  I  accepted  it. 
On  going  to  Washington  I  found  that  there  was 
a  chaplain  already  connected  with  the  Navy  Yard, 
and  on  his  retirement  some  months  later,  and  my 
offering  to  perform  any  duties  required  there, 
being  answered  that  there  was  really  nothing  to 
be  done,  I  resigned  the  commission. 

Life  in  Washington  was  not  agreeable  to  me, 
and  yet  I  felt  a  singular  attachment  to  the  people 
there.  This  mixture  of  repulsion  and  attraction 
I  could  not  understand  at  the  time,  or  rather, — 
as  is  usually  the  case  with  our  experience  while 
passing,  —  did  not  try  to ;  but  walking  those 
streets  two  or  three  years  later,  when  experience 
had  become  history,  I  could  read  it.  In  London 
or  Paris  the  presence  of  the  government  is  hardly 
felt;  the  action  of  public  affairs  is  merged  and 
lost  in  the  life  of  a  great  city ;  but  in  Washing- 
ton it  is  the  one,  all-absorbing  business  of  the 
place.  Now,  whether  it  be  pride  or  sympathy, 
one  does  not  enjoy  a  great  movement  of  things 
going  on  around  him  in  which  he  has  no  part, 
and  the  thoughts  and  aims  of  a  retired  and  studi- 
ous man,  especially,  sever  him  from  the  views  and 
interests  of  public  men.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
this  very  pressure  of  an  all-surrounding  public 
life  brings  private  men  closer  together.  There 
they  stand,  while  the  tides  of  successive  Adminis- 
trations  sweep   by  them,  and  their  relation  be- 


no  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

comes  constantly  more  interesting  from  the  fluc- 
tuation of  everything  else.  It  is  really  curious  to 
see  how  the  private  and  resident  society  of  Wash- 
ington breathes  freer,  and  prepares  to  enjoy  itself 
when  Congress  is  about  to  rise  and  leave  it  to 
itself. 

Among  the  remarkable  persons  with  whom  I 
became  acquainted  in  Washington,  at  this  or  a 
former  time,  was  John  C.  Calhoun.  I  had  with 
him  three  interviews  of  considerable  length,  and 
I  remember  each  of  them,  the  more  distinctly 
from  the  remarkable  habit  he  had  of  talking 
upon  subjects^  —  not  upon  the  general  occur- 
rences of  the  day,  but  upon  some  particular 
topic.  The  first  two  were  at  an  earlier  period 
than  that  to  which  this  part  of  my  narrative  re- 
lates ;  it  was  when  he  was  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States,  under  the  administration  of  John 
Quincy  Adams.  I  went  to  his  room  in  the  Capi- 
tol to  present  my  letter  of  introduction ;  it  was 
just  before  the  assembling  of  the  Senate,  and  I 
said,  of  course,  that  I  would  not  intrude  upon  his 
time  at  that  moment,  and  was  about  to  withdraw ; 
but  he  kindly  detained  me,  saying,  "  No :  it  will 
be  twenty  minutes  before  I  go  to  the  Senate ;  sit 
down."  And  then,  in  two  minutes,  I  found  him 
talking  upon  a  purely  literary  point,  —  I  am  sure 
I  do  not  know  how  he  got  to  it ;  but  it  was  this, 
that  the  first  or  second  book  of  every  author,  so 
he  maintained,  was  always  his  best.     He  cited  a 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  1 1  r 

number  of  instances  in  support  of  his  position.  I 
do  not  remember  what  they  were ;  but  it  occurred 
to  me  in  reflecting  upon  it  afterwards,  that,  in 
purely  hterary  composition,  there  were  some  rea- 
sons why  it  might  be  true.  An  author  writes  his 
first  books  with  the  greatest  care;  he  naturally 
puts  into  them  his  best  and  most  original 
thoughts,  which  he  cannot  use  again ;  and  if  he 
succeeds,  and  gains  reputation,  he  is  liable  to 
grow  both  careless .  and  confident,  —  to  think 
that  the  things  which  people  admire  are  his  pecu- 
liarities, and  not  his  general  merits,  and  so  to 
fall  into  mannerism  and  repetition.  I  remember 
Mrs.  George  Lee,  of  Boston,  a  sagacious  woman, 
saying  to  me  one  day,  when  I  told  her  I  was 
going  to  write  a  second  sermon  on  a  certain  sub- 
ject, —  she  had  praised  the  first,  —  "I  have  ob- 
served that  the  second  sermon,  on  any  subject,  is 
never  so  good  as  the  first ;  even  Channing's  are 
not." 

Mr.  Calhoun,  on  my  leaving  him,  invited  me 
to  pass  the  evening  with  him  at  his  house  in 
Georgetown.  I  went,  expecting  to  meet  com- 
pany, but  found  myself  alone  with  him,  anli  then 
the  subject  of  conversation  was  the  advantage  and 
necessity  of  an  Opposition  in  Government.  He 
was  himself  then,  of  course,  in  the  Opposition,  and 
he  was  very  candid :  he  said  he  did  not  question 
the  motives  of  the  Administration,  while  he  felt 
bound  to  oppose  it.  I  was  struck  with  his  can- 
dor,—  a  thing  I  did  not  look  for  in  a  political 


112  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

opponent,  —  but  especially  with  what  he  said 
about  the  benefit  of  an  Opposition ;  both  were 
rather  new  to  me. 

My  third  interview  with  him  was  at  a  later 
period,  when  his  discourse  turned  upon  this  ques- 
tion :  What  is  the  greatest  thing  that  a  man  can 
do?  His  answer  was  characteristic  of  the  states- 
man. "  It  is,"  he  said,  "  to  speak  the  true  and 
saving  word  in  a  great  national  emergency.  For 
it  implies,"  he  continued,  "  the  fullest  knowledge 
of  the  past,  the  largest  comprehension  of  the  pres- 
est,  and  the  clearest  foresight  of  the  future."  He 
might  have  added,  to  complete  the  idea,  that  this 
word  was  sometimes  to  be  spoken  when  it  in- 
volved the  greatest  peril  to  the  position  and  pros- 
pects of  the  speaker.  But  how  much  moral 
considerations  were  apt  to  be  present  to  his  mind, 
I  do  not  know.  He  was  mostly  known  —  so  we 
of  the  North  thought  —  as  an  impracticable  rea- 
soner.  Miss  Martineau  said,  "  He  was  like  a 
cast-iron  man  on  a  railroad." 

I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Adams,  but  saw  him 
little,  and  heard  him  less,  as  I  will  relate.  Mr. 
Reed,  of  Barnstable,  introduced  me,  —  "  Father 
Reed,"  as  they  used  to  call  him,  from  his  having 
been  longer  a  member  of  Congress  than  any  other 
man  in  the  House,  —  and  I  said  to  him,  as  we 
were  entering  the  White  House,  "  Now  tell  Mr. 
Adams  who  I  am  and  where  from  ;  for  I  think  he 
must  be  puzzled  what  to  talk  about,  with  so  many 
strangers   coming  to  him."     Well,  I  was  intro- 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  1 13 

duced  accordingly,  and  Mr.  Reed  retired.  I  was 
offered  a  seat,  and  took  it.  I  was  a  young  man, 
and  felt  that  it  did  not  become  me  to  open  a  con- 
versation. And  there  we  sat,  five  minutes,  with- 
out a  word  being  spoken  by  either  of  us  !  I  rose, 
took  my  leave,  and  went  away,  I  don't  know 
whether  more  angered  or  astonished.  I  once,  by 
the  by,  visited  his  father,  old  John  Adams,  then 
living  in  retirement  at  Quincy.  Mr.  Josiah 
Quincy  took  me  to  see  him.  He  was  not  silent, 
but  talked,  I  remember,  full  ten  minutes  —  for 
we  did  not  interrupt  him  —  about  Machiavel, 
and  in  language  so  well  chosen  that  I  thought  it 
might  have  been  printed. 

But  the  most  interesting  person,  as  statesman, 
that  I  saw  in  Washington,  was  Thomas  Corwin,  of 
Ohio,  commonly  called  Tom  Corwin.  This  was 
at  a  later  period. 

Circumstances,  or  the  chances  of  conversation, 
sometimes  lead  to  acquaintance  and  friendship, 
which  years  of  ordinary  intercourse  fail  to  bring 
about.  It  happened,  the  first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Cor- 
win, that  some  observation  I  made  upon  political 
morality  seemed  to  strike  him  as  a  new  thought ; 
I  suppose  it  was  a  topic  seldom  touched  upon  in 
Washington  society.  It  led  to  a  good  deal  of 
conversation,  then  and  afterwards ;  and  I  must 
say  that  a  more  high-principled  and  religiously 
minded  statesman  I  have  never  met  with  than 
Mr.  Corwin. 

When  he  was   preparing  to  deliver  his  cele- 
8 


114  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

brated  speech  in  the  Senate  against  the  war  with 
Mexico,  he  told  me  what  he  was  going  to  say, 
and  asked  me  if  I  thought  he  could  say  it  and 
not  be  politically  ruined  by  it.  I  answered  that 
I  did  not  know ;  but  that  I  would  say  it  if  it  did 
ruin  me. 

The  day  came  for  his  speech,  and  I  never  saw 
the  Senate  Chamber  so  densely  packed  as  it  was  to 
hear  him.  He  told  me  that  he  should  not  speak 
more  than  half  an  hour ;  but  he  did  speak  three 
hours,  not  only  against  the  Mexican  war,  but 
against  the  system  of  slavery,  in  the  bitterest  lan- 
guage. His  friends  in  Ohio  told  me,  years  after, 
that  it  did  ruin  him.  But  for  that,  they  said,  he 
would  have  been  President  of  the  United  States. 

Thackeray  came  to  Washington  while  I  was 
there.  He  gave  his  course  of  lectures  on  the 
'*  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury." His  style,  especially  in  his  earlier  writ- 
ings, had  one  quality  which  the  critics  did  not 
seem  to  notice;  iL  was  not  conventional,  but  spun 
out  of  the  brain.  With  the  power  of  thought  to 
take  hold  of  the  mind,  and  a  rich,  deep,  melodi- 
ous voice,  he  contrived,  without  one  gesture,  or 
any  apparent  emotion  in  his  delivery,  to  charm 
away  an  hour  as  pleasantly  as  I  have  ever  felt  it 
in  a  lecture.  What  he  told  me  of  his  way  of  com- 
posing confirms  me  in  my  criticism  on  his  style. 
He  did  not  dash  his  pen  on  paper,  like  Walter 
Scott,  and  write  off  twenty  pages  without  stop- 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  115 

ping,  but,  dictating  to  an  amanuensis,  —  a  plan 
which  leaves  the  brain  to  work  undisturbed  by 
the  pen-labor, — dictating  from  his  chair,  and 
often  from  his  bed,  he  gave  out  sentence  by  sen- 
tence, slowly,  as  they  were  moulded  in  his  mind. 

Thackeray  was  sensitive  about  public  opinion ; 
no  writer,  I  imagine,  was  ever  otherwise.  I  re- 
member, one  morning,  he  was  sitting  in  our  par- 
lor, when  letters  from  the  mail  came  in.  They 
were  received  with  some  eagerness,  of  course,  and 
he  said,  "  You  seem  to  be  pleased  to  have  letters ; 
/  am  not."  —  "  No  ?  "  we  said.  —  "  No.  I  have  had 
letters  from  England  this  morning,  and  they  tell 
me  that '  Henry  Esmond  '  is  not  liked." 

This  led  to  some  conversation  on  novels  and 
novel-writing,  and  I  ventured  to  say :  "  How  is  it 
that  not  one  of  the  English  novelists  has  ever 
drawn  any  high  or  adequate  character  of  the 
clergyman?  Walter  Scott  never  gave  us  any- 
thing beyond  the  respectable  ofificial.  Gold- 
smith's Dr.  Primrose  is  a  good  man,  the  best  we 
have  in  your  English  fiction,  but  odd  and  amus- 
ing rather  than  otherwise.  Then  Dickens  has 
given  us  Chadband  and  Stiggins,  and  you  Charles 
Honeyman.  Can  you  not  conceive,"  I  went  on 
to  say,  "  that  a  man,  without  any  chance  of 
worldly  profit,  for  a  bare  stipend,  giving  his  life 
to  promote  what  you  must  know  are  the  highest 
interests  of  mankind,  is  engaged  in  a  noble  call- 
ing, worthy  of  being  nobly  described  ?  Or  have 
you   no   examples   in  England  to  draw  from  ? " 


1 1 6  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

This  last  sentence  touched  him,  and  I  meant  it 
should.    • 

With  considerable  excitement  he  said,  "  I  de- 
livered a  lecture  the  other  evening  in  your  church 
in  New  York,  for  the  Employment  Society ;  would 
you  let  me  read  to  you  a  passage  from  it?  "  Of 
course  I  said  I  should  be  very  glad  to  hear  it,  and 
added,  "  I  thank  you  for  doing  that."  —  "I  don't 
know  why  you  should  thank  me,"  he  said ;  "  it 
cost  me  but  an  hour's  reading,  and  I  got  $1,500 
for  them.  I  thought  I  was  the  party  obliged. 
But  I  did  tell  them  they  should  have  a  dozen 
shirts  made  up  for  me,  and  they  did  it."  He 
then  went  and  brought  his  lecture,  and  read  the 
passage,  which  told  of  a  curate's  taking  him  to 
visit  a  poor  family  in  London,  where  he  witnessed 
a  scene  of  distress  and  of  disinterestedness  very 
striking  and  beautiful  to  see.  It  was  a  very 
touching  description,  and  Thackeray  nearly  broke 
down  in  reading  it, 

A  part  of  the  winter  of  1856-57  I  passed  with 
my  family  at  Charleston,  S.  C.  I  went  to  preach 
in  Dr.  Oilman's  pulpit,  and  to  lecture.  I  had 
been  there  the  spring  before,  and  made  very 
agreeable  acquaintance  with  the  people.  My  re- 
ception, both  in  public  and  in  private,  was  as 
kindly  and  hospitable  as  I  could  desire.  I  was 
much  interested  in  society  there,  and  strongly  at- 
tached to  it.  But  in  August  following,  in  an 
address   under   our   Old   Elm-tree   in    Sheffield, 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  117 

I  made  some  observations  upon  the  threatened 
extension  of  the  slave-system,  that  dashed  nearly- 
all  my  agreeable  relations  with  Charleston.  I  am 
not  a  person  to  regard  such  a  breach  with  indif- 
ference :  it  pained  me  deeply.  My  only  comfort 
was,  that  what  I  said  was  honestly  said ;  that  no 
honorable  man  can  desire  to  be  respected  or  loved 
through  ignorance  of  his  character  or  opinions;  and 
that  the  ground  then  recently  taken  at  the  South 
—  that  the  institution  of  human  slavery  is  intrin- 
sically right,  just,  and  good  —  seems  to  me  to  in- 
volve such  a  wrong  to  humanity,  such  evil  to  the 
South,  and  such  peril  to  the  Union  of  the  States, 
that  it  was  a  proper  occasion  for  speaking  ear- 
nestly and  decidedly. 

I  was  altogether  unprepared  for  the  treatment 
I  received.  One  year  before,  I  had  been  in  the 
great  Charleston  Club,  when  the  question  of  the 
perpetuity  of  the  slave-system  was  discussed; 
when,  indeed,  an  elaborate  essay  was  read  by  one 
of  the  members,  in  which  the  ground  was  taken, 
that  the  dark  cloud  would  sink  away  to  the  south- 
west, to  Central  America  perhaps,  from  whence 
the  slave  population  would  find  an  exodus  across 
the  water  to  Africa;  and  of  twenty  members 
present,  seventeen  agreed  with  the  essayist. 

And  I  take  occasion  here  to  say,  that  this  po- 
sition of  the  seventeen  was  mainly  satisfactory  to 
me.  I  would,  indeed,  have  had  the  South  go 
farther.  I  would  have  had  it  take  in  hand  the 
business  of  putting  an  end  to  slavery,  by  laws 


Ii8  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

providing  for  its  gradual  abolition,  and  by  pre- 
paring the  slaves  for  it;  but  I  did  not  believe 
then,  and  do  not  now,^  that  immediate  emanci- 
pation was  theoretically  the  best  plan.  It  was 
forced  upon  us  by  the  exigencies  of  the  war. 
And,  independently  of  that,  such  was  the  infatu- 
ation of  the  Southern  mind  on  the  subject  that 
there  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  its  ever  being 
brought  to  take  that  view  of  it  which  was  pre- 
vailing through  the  civilized  and  Christian  world. 
But  if  it  had  taken  that  view,  and  had  gone 
about  the  business  of  preparing  for  emancipa- 
tion, I  think  the  general  public  sentiment  would 
have  been  satisfied  ;  and  I  believe  the  result  would 
have  been  better  for  the  slaves,  and  better  for  the 
country.  To  be  sure,  things  are  working  better 
perhaps  now  than  could  have  been  expected,  and 
it  may  turn  out  that  instant  emancipation  was  the 
best  thing.  But  the  results  of  great  social  changes 
do  not  immediately  reveal  themselves.  We  are 
feeling,  for  instance,  the  pressure  and  peril  of  the 
free  system  in  government  more  than  we  did  fifty 
years  ago,  and  may  have  to  feel  and  fear  it  more 
than  we  do  now.  The  freedmen  are,  at  present, 
upon  their  good  behavior,  and  are  acting  under 
the  influence  of  a  previous  condition.  But  when 
I  look  to  the  future,  and  see  them  rising  to  wealth, 
culture,  and  refinement,  and,  as  human  beings, 
entitled  to  consideration  as  much  as  any  other, 

*  The  date  of  this  passage  must  be  in  or  about  1868. —  M. 
E.  D. 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  1 19 

and  yet  forbidden  intermarriage  with  the  whites, 
as  they  should  be  for  physiological  reasons, — 
when,  in  fine,  they  see  that  they  have  not  any 
fair  and  just  position  in  American  society  and 
government,  —  they  may  be  sorry  that  they  were 
not  gradually  emancipated,  and  colonized  to  their 
own  native  country;  and  for  ourselves  —  for  our 
own  country  —  the  seeds  may  be  sowing,  in  the 
dark  bosom  of  the  future,  which  may  spring  up 
in  civil  wars  more  terrible  than  ever  were  seen 
before. 

Such  speculations  and  opinions,  I  am  sensible, 
would  meet  with  no  favor  among  us  now.  The 
espousal  of  the  slave-man's  cause  among  our 
Northern  people  is  so  humane  and  hearty  that 
they  can  stop  nowhere,  for  any  consideration  of 
expediency,  in  doing  him  justice,  after  all  his 
wrongs ;  and  I  honor  their  feeling,  go  to  what 
lengths  it  will.  Nevertheless,  I  put  down  these 
my  thoughts,  for  my  children  to  understand,  re- 
gard them  as  they  may. 

But  what  it  is  in  my  style  or  manner  of  writ- 
ing that  has  called  forth  such  a  hard  feeling  tow- 
ards me,  from  extremists  both  North  and  South, 
upon  this  slavery  question,  I  cannot  understand. 
In  every  instance  in  which  I  have  spoken  of  it,  I 
have  been  drawn  out  by  a  sense  of  duty,  — *  there 
certainly  was  no  pleasure  in  it.  I  have  never 
assailed  the  motives  of  any  man  or  party ;  I  have 
spoken  in  no  feeling  of  unkindness  to  anybody; 
there  can  have  been  no  bitterness  in  my  speech. 


120  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

And  yet  something,  I  suppose,  there  must  have 
been  in  my  way  of  expressing  myself,  to  offend. 
It  may  have  been  a  fault,  it  may  have  been  a 
merit  for  aught  I  know;  for  truly  I  do  not  know 
what  it  was. 

After  all,  how  little  does  any  man  know  of  his 
own  personality,  —  of  his  personality  in  action. 
He  may  study  himself;  he  may  find  out  what  his 
faculties,  what  his  traits  of  character  are,  in  the 
abstract  as  it  were ;  but  what  they  are  in  action, 
in  movement,  —  how  they  appear  to  others,  —  he 
cannot  know.  The  eye  that  looks  around  upon  a 
landscape  sees  everything  but  itself.  It  is  just  as 
a  man  may  look  in  the  glass  and  see  himself  there 
every  day ;  but  he  sees  only  the  framework,  only 
the  "  still  life  "  in  his  face ;  he  does  not  see  it  in 
the  free  play  of  expression,  —  in  the  strong  work- 
ings of  thought  and  feeling.  I  was  one  day  sit- 
ting with  Robert  Walsh  in  Paris,  and  there  was 
a  large  mirror  behind  him.  Suddenly  he  said, 
"  Ah,  what  a  vain  fellow  you  are  ! "  —  "  How  so  3  " 
I  asked.  —  "  Why,"  said  he,  "you  are  not  looking 
at  me  as  you  talk,  but  you  are  looking  at  yourself 
in  the  glass."  —  "  It  is  a  fact !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  I 
never  saw  myself  talking  before,  —  never  saw  the 
play  of  my  own  features  in  conversation."  Had 
the  mind  a  glass  thus  to  look  in,  it  would  see 
things,  see  wonders,  it  knows  nothing  of  now. 
It  might  see  worse  things,  it  might  see  better 
things,  than  it  expected. 

And  yet  I  have  been  endeavoring  in  these  pages 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  121 

to  give  some  account  of  myself,  while,  after  all,  I 
am  obliged  to  say  that  it  is  little  more  than  a 
post  mortem  examination.  If  I  had  been  dealing 
with  the  living  subject,  I  suppose  I  could  not  have 
dealt  so  freely  with  myself.  The  last  thing  which 
I  ever  thought  of  doing  is  this  which  I  have  now 
done.  Autobiographies  are  often  pleasant  read- 
ing ;  but  I  confess  that  I  have  always  had  a  kind 
of  prejudice  against  them.  They  have  seemed  to 
me  to  imply  something  of  vanity,  or  a  want  of 
dignified  reserve.  The  apology  lies,  perhaps,  in 
the  writer's  ignorance,  after  all,  of  his  own  and 
very  self.  He  has  only  told  the  story  of  a  life. 
He  has  not  come  much  nearer  to  himself  than 
statistics  come  to  the  life  of  a  people. 

All  that  I  know  is,  that  I  have  lived  a  life  mainly 
happy  in  its  experience,  not  merely  according  to 
the  average,  not  merely  as  things  go  in  this  world, 
but  far  more  than  that;  which  I  should  be  will- 
ing to  live  again  for  the  happiness  that  has 
blessed  it,  yet  more  for  the  interests  which  have 
animated  it,  and  which  has  always  been  growing 
happier  from  the  beginning.  I  have  lived  a  life 
mainly  fortunate  in  its  circumstances  both  of 
early  nurture  and  active  pursuit;  marred  by  no 
vice,  —  I  do  not  remember  even  ever  to  have 
told  a  he, — stained  by  no  dishonor;  laborious, 
but  enjoying  labor,  especially  in  the  sphere  to 
which  my  life  has  been  devoted ;  suffering  from 
no  pressing  want,  though  moderate  in  means,  and 
successful  in  every  way,  as  much  as  I  had  any 


122  A  utohiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

right  or  reason  to  expect.  I  have  been  happy 
(the  word  is  weak  to  express  it)  in  my  domestic 
relations,  happy  in  the  dearest  and  holiest  friend- 
ships, and  happy  in  the  respect  of  society.  And 
I  have  had  a  happiness  (I  dread  the  appearance 
oi  professio7i  in  saying  it)  in  things  divinest,  in 
religion,  in  God, —  in  associating  with  him  all  the 
beauty  of  nature  and  the  blessedness  of  life, 
beyond  all  other  possible  joy.  And,  therefore, 
notwithstanding  all  that  I  have  suffered,  notwith- 
standing all  the  pain  and  weariness  and  anxiety 
and  sorrow  that  necessarily  enter  into  life,  and 
the  inward  errings  that  are  worse  than  all,  I  would 
end  my  record  with  a  devout  thanksgiving  to  the 
great  Author  of  my  being.  For  more  and  more 
am  I  unwilling  to  make  my  gratitude  to  him  what 
is  commonly  called  "  a  thanksgiving  for  mercies," 
—  for  any  benefits  or  blessings  that  are  peculiar  to 
myself,  or  my  friends,  or  indeed  to  any  man. 
Instead  of  this,  I  would  have  it  to  be  gratitude 
for  alt  that  belongs  to  my  life  and  being,  —  for 
joy  and  sorrow,  for  health  and  sickness,  for  suc- 
cess and  disappointment,  for  virtue  and  for  temp- 
tation, for  life  and  death ;  because  I  believe  that 
all  is  meant  for  good. 

Something  of  what  I  here  say  seems  to  require 
another  word  or  two  to  be  added,  and  perhaps  it 
is  not  unmeet  for  me  to  subjoin,  as  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter,  my  theory  and  view  and 
summing  up  of  what  hfe  is;  for  on  it,  to  my 
apprehension,  the  virtue   and  happiness  of  life 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  123 

mainly  repose.  It  revealed  itself  dimly  in  my 
earlier,  it  has  become  clearer  to  me  in  my  later, 
years ;  and  the  best  legacy,  as  I  conceive,  that  I 
could  leave  to  my  children  would  be  this  view  of 
life. 

I  know  that  we  are  not,  all  the  while,  thinking 
of  any  theory  of  life.  So  neither  are  we  all  the 
while  thinking  of  the  laws  of  nature ;  the  attraction 
of  gravitation,  for  instance.  But  unless  there  were 
some  ultimate  reference  to  laws,  both  material 
and  moral,  our  minds  would  lose  their  balance  and 
security.  If  I  believed  that  the  hill  by  my  side, 
or  the  house  I  live  in,  were  liable  any  moment  to 
be  unseated  and  hurled  through  the  air  by  cen- 
trifugal force,  I  should  be  ill  at  ease.  And  if  I 
believed  that  the  world  was  made  by  a  malignant 
Power,  or  that  the  fortunes  of  men  were  the  sport 
of  a  doubtful  conflict  between  good  and  evil  deities 
or  principles,  my  life,  like  that  of  the  ancients, 
would  be  filled  with  superstitions  and  painful 
fears.  The' foundation  of  all  rational  human  tran- 
quillity, cheerfulness,  and  courage,  whether  we  are 
distinctly  conscious  of  it  or  not,  lies  in  the  ultimate 
conviction,  that  God  is  good,  —  that  his  provi- 
dence, his  order  of  things  in  the  world,  is  good  ; 
and  theology,  in  the  largest  sense  of  the  term,  is 
as  vital  to  us  as  the  air  we  breathe. 

If,  then,  I  thought  that  this  world  were  a  cast- 
off,  or  a  wrecked  and  ruined,  world ;  if  I  thought 
that  the  human  generations  had  come  out  from 
the  dark  eclipse  of  some  pre-existent  state,  or 


1 24  A  utobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

from  the  dark  shadow  of  Adam's  fall,  broken, 
blighted,  accursed,  propense  to  all  evil,  and  dis- 
abled for  all  good;  and  if,  in  consequence,  I 
believed  that  unnumbered  millions  of  ignorant 
heathens,  and  thousands  around  me,  —  children 
but  a  day  old  in  their  conscious  moral  probation, 
and  men,  untaught,  nay,  ill-taught,  misled  and 
blind,  —  were  doomed,  as  the  result  of  this  hfe- 
experiment,  to  intense,  to  unending,  to  infinite 
pain  and  anguish,  —  most  certainly  I  should  be 
miserable  in  such  a  state,  and  nothing  could  make 
life  tolerable  to  me.  Most  of  all  should  I  detest 
myself,  if  the  idea  that  /  was  to  escape  that  doom 
could  assuage  and  soothe  in  my  breast  the  bitter 
pain  of  all  generous  humanity  and  sympathy  for 
the  woes  and  horrors  of  such  a  widespread  and 
overwhelming  catastrophe. 

What,  then,  do  I  say  and  think?  I  say,  and  I 
maintain,  that  the  constitution  of  the  world  is 
good,  and  that  the  constitution  of  human  nature 
is  good;  that  the  laws  of  nature  and  the  laws 
of  life  are  ordained  for  good.  I  believe  that  man 
was  made  and  destined  by  his  Creator  ultimately 
to  be  an  adoring,  holy,  and  happy  being ;  that  his 
spiritual  and  physical  constitution  was  designed 
to  lead  to  that  end ;  but  that  end,  it  is  manifest 
from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  can  be  attained 
only  by  a  free  struggle;  and  this  free  struggle, 
with  its  mingled  success  and  failure,  is  the  very 
story  of  the  world.  A  sublime  story  it  is,  there- 
fore.    The  life  of  men  and  nations  has  not  been 


Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey.  125 

a  floundering  on  through  useless  disorder  and 
confusion,  trial  and  strife,  war  and  bloodshed ;  but 
it  has  been  a  struggling  onward  to  an  end. 

This,  I  believe,  has  been  the  story  of  the  world 
from  the  beginning.  Before  the  Christian,  before 
the  Hebrew,  system  appeared,  there  was  religion, 
worship,  faith,  morality,  in  the  world,  and  how- 
ever erring,  yet  always  improving  from  age  to 
age.  Those  systems  are  great  steps  in  the  human 
progress ;  but  they  are  not  the  only  steps.  Moses 
is  venerable  to  me.  The  name  of  Jesus  is  "  above 
every  name ;  "  but  my  reverence  for  him  does  not 
require  me  to  lose  all  interest  in  Confucius  and 
Zoroaster,  in  Socrates  and  Plato. 

In  short,  the  world  is  a  school ;  men  are  pupils 
in  this  school;  God  is  its  builder  and  ordainer. 
And  he  has  raised  up  for  its  instruction  sages  and 
seers,  teachers  and  guides;  ay,  martyred  lives, 
and  sacrificial  toils  and  tears  and  blood,  have  been 
poured  out  for  it.  The  greatest  teaching,"  the  great- 
est life,  the  most  affecting,  heart-regenerating  sac- 
rifice, was  that  of  the  Christ.  From  him  I  have 
a  clearer  guidance,  and  a  more  encouraging  reli- 
ance upon  the  help  and  mercy  of  God,  than  from 
all  else.  I  do  not  say  the  only  reliance,  but  the 
greatest. 

This  school  of  life  I  regard  as  the  infant-school 
of  eternity.  The  pupils,  I  believe,  will  go  on  for- 
ever learning.  There  is  solemn  retribution  in  this 
system,  —  the  future  must  forever  answer  for  the 
past ;  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise.    I  must  fight 


126  Autobiography  of  Dr.  Dewey. 

the  battle,  if  I  would  win  the  prize;  and  for  all 
failure,  for  all  cowardice,  for  all  turning  aside 
after  ease  and  indulgence  in  preference  to  virtue 
and  sanctity,  I  must  suffer;  I  would  not  have  it 
otherwise.  There  is  help  divine  offered  to  me, 
there  is  encouragement  wise  and  gracious ;  I  wel- 
come it.  There  is  a  blessed  hereafter  opened  to 
prayer  and  penitence  and  faith ;  I  lift  my  hopes 
to  that  immortal  life.  This  view  of  the  system  of 
things  spreads  for  me  a  new  light  over  the  heavens 
and  the  earth.  It  is  a  foundation  of  peace  and 
strength  and  happiness  more  to  be  valued,  in  my 
account,  than  the  title-deed  of  all  the  world. 


LETTERS. 


The  foregoing  pages,  selected  from  many 
written  at  intervals  between  1857  and  1870,  tell 
nearly  all  of  their  writer's  story  which  it  can  be 
of  interest  to  the  public  to  know;  and  although  I 
have  been  tempted  here  and  there  to  add  some 
explanatory  remarks,  I  have  thought  it  best  on 
the  whole  to  leave  them  in  their  original  and 
sometimes  abrupt  simplicity.  The  author  did 
not  intend  them  for  publication,  but  for  his  fam- 
ily alone;  and  in  sharing  a  part  with  a  larger 
audience  than  he  contemplated,  we  count  upon 
a  measure  of  that  responsive  sympathy  with 
which  we  ourselves  read  frequently  between  the 
lines,  and  enter  into  his  meaning  without  many 
words. 

But  there  is  one  point  I  cannot  leave  un- 
touched. There  is  one  subject  on  which  some  of 
those  who  nevertheless  honor  him  have  scarcely 
understood  his  position. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  slavery  was  a  question 
upon  which  feeling  was  not  only  strong,  but 
roused,  stung,  and  goaded  to  a  height  of  passion 


128  Letters. 

where  all  argument  was  swept  away  by  the  com- 
mon emotion  as  futile,  if  not  base.  My  father, 
thinking  the  system  hateful  in  itself  and  produc- 
tive of  nearly  unmingled  evil,  held  nevertheless 
that,  like  all  great  and  established  wrongs,  it  must 
be  met  with  wise  and  patient  counsel ;  and  that 
in  the  highest  interest  of  the  slave,  of  the  white 
race,  of  the  country,  and  of  constitutional  liberty, 
its  abolition  must  be  gradual.  To  the  uncompro- 
mising Abolitionists  such  views  were  intolerable ; 
and  by  some  of  those  who  demanded  immediate 
emancipation,  even  at  the  cost  of  the  Union  and 
all  that  its  destruction  involved,  it  was  said  that 
he  was  influenced  by  a  mean  spirit  of  expediency 
and  a  base  truckling  to  the  rank  and  wealth 
which  sustained  this  insult  to  humanity. 

They  little  knew  him.  The  man  who  at 
twenty-five  had  torn  himself  from  the  associations 
and  friendships  of  his  youth,  and,  moved  solely 
by  love  of  truth,  had  imperilled  all  his  worldly 
hopes  by  joining  himself  to  a  small  religious 
body,  despised  and  hated  as  heretics  by  most  of 
those  whom  he  had  been  trained  to  love  and 
respect,  was  not  the  man  at  fifty  to  blench  from 
the  expression  of  any  honest  conviction;  and,  to 
sum  up  all  in  one  word,  he  held  his  views  upon 
this  subject,  as  upon  all  others,  bravely  and  hon- 
estly, and  stated  them  clearly  and  positively, 
when  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  speak,  although 
evasion  or  silence  would  have  been  the  more  com- 
fortable alternative.     "  I  doubt,"  says  Mr.  Chad- 


Letters.  129 

wick,^  "  if  Garrison  or  Parker  had  a  keener  sense 
than  his  of  the  enormity  of  human  slavery.  Be- 
fore the  first  Abolitionist  Society  had  been  organ- 
ized, he  was  one  of  the  organizers  of  a  committee 
for  the  discussion  and  advancement  of  emancipa- 
tion. I  have  read  all  of  his  principal  writings  upon 
slavery,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  more  terri- 
ble indictments  of  its  wickedness.  He  stated 
its  defence  in  terms  that  Foote  and  Yancey 
might  have  made  their  own,  only  to  sweep  it 
all  away  with  the  '  blazing  ubiquity '  that  the 
negro  was  a  man  and  an  immortal  soul.  Yet 
when  the  miserable  days  of  fugitive-slave  rendi- 
tion were  upon  us,  he  was  with  Gannett  in  the 
sad  conviction  that  the  law  must  be  obeyed.  We 
could  not  see  it  then ;  but  we  can  see  to-day  that 
it  was  possible  for  men  as  good  and  true  as  any 
men  alive  to  take  this  stand.  And  nothing  else 
brings  out  the  nobleness  of  Dewey  into  such 
bold  relief  as  the  fact,  that  the  immeasurable  tor- 
rent of  abuse  that  greeted  his  expressed  opinion 
did  not  in  any  least  degree  avail  to  make  him  one 
of  the  pro-slavery  faction.  The  concession  of 
1850  was  one  which  he  would  not  have  made,  and 
it  must  be  the  last.  Welcome  to  him  the  iron 
flail  of  war,  whose  tribulation  saved  the  immortal 
wheat  of  justice  and  purged  away  the  chaff  of 
wrong  to  perish  in  unquenchable  fire  !  " 

His   feelings  retained  their  early  sensitiveness 

1  The  Rev.  John  W.  Chadwick,  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  in  a  ser- 
mon preached  after  Dr.  Dewey's  death. 

9 


130  Letters. 

in   a  somewhat  remarkable  degree.     In  a  letter 
written  when  he  was  near  seventy  he  says,  — 

"  I  do  believe  there  never  was  a  man  into  whose  man- 
hood and  later  life  so  much  of  his  foolish  boyhood 
flowed  as  into  mine.  I  am  as  anxious  to  go  home,  I 
shall  be  all  the  way  to-morrow  as  eager  and  restless,  and 
all  the  while  thinking  of  the  end  of  my  journey,  as  if  I 
were  a  boy  going  from  school,  or  a  young  lover  six 
weeks  after  his  wedding-day.  Shall  I  ever  learn  to  be 
an  old  man?" 

But  it  was  this  very  simplicity  and  tenderness 
that  gave  such  a  charm  to  his  personal  inter- 
course. His  emotions,  like  his  thoughts,  had  a 
plain  directness  about  them  which  assured  you 
of  their  honesty.  With  a  profound  love  of  jus- 
tice, he  had  an  eminently  judicial  mind,  and 
could  not  be  content  without  viewing  a  subject 
from  every  side,  and  casting  light  upon  all  its 
points.  The  light  was  simple  sunshine,  —  clear, 
untinged  by  artificial  mixtures;  the  views  were 
direct  and  straightforward,  with  no  subtle  slants 
of  odd  or  recondite  position ;  and  in  his  feelings, 
also,  there  was  the  same  large  and  natural  sim- 
plicity. You  felt  the  ground-swell  of  humanity 
in  them,  and  it  was  this  breadth  and  genuineness 
which  laid  the  foundation  of  his  power  as  a 
preacher,  making  him  strike  unerringly  those  mas- 
ter chords  that  are  common  and  universal  in 
every  audience.  Gifts  of  oratory  he  had,  both 
natural  and  acquired,  —  a  full,  melodious  voice, 
so  sympathetic  in  modulation  and  so  attuned  to 


Letters.  131 

reverence  that  I  have  heard  more  than  one  per- 
son say  that  his  first  few  words  in  the  pulpit  did 
more  towards  Hfting  them  to  a  truly  religious 
frame  of  mind  than  the  whole  service  from  any 
other  lips,  —  a  fine  dramatic  power,  enough  to 
have  given  him  distinction  as  an  actor,  had  that 
been  the  profession  of  his  choice,  —  a  striking 
dignity  of  presence,  and  an  easy  and  appropriate 
gesticulation.  But  these,  as  well  as  his  strong 
common  sense,  that  balance-wheel  of  character, 
were  brought  into  the  service  of  his  earnest  con- 
victions. What  he  had  to  say,  he  put  into  the 
simplest  form ;  and  if  his  love  of  art  and  beauty, 
and  his  imaginative  faculty,  gave  wealth  and  orna- 
ment to  his  style,  he  never  sacrificed  a  particle  of 
direct  force  for  any  rhetorical  advantage.  His 
function  in  life  —  he  felt  it  to  his  inmost  soul  — 
was  to  present  to  human  hearts  and  minds  the 
essential  verities  of  their  existence  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  they  could  not  choose  but  believe  in  them. 
His  strength  was  in  his  reverent  perception  of  the 
majesty  of  Right  as  accordant  with  the  Divine  and 
Eternal  Will ;  his  power  over  men  was  in  the 
sublimity  of  his  appeal  to  an  answering  faith  in 
themselves. 

He  was  greatest  as  a  preacher,  and  it  is  as  a 
preacher  that  he  will  be  best  remembered  by  the 
public.  The  printed  page,  though  far  inferior  to 
the  fervid  eloquence  of  the  same  words  when 
spoken,  will  corroborate  by  its  beauty,  its  pathos, 
and  its  logical  force,  the  traditions  that  still  linger 


132  Letters. 

of  his  deep  impressiveness  in  the  pulpit.  In 
making  the  following  selections  from  his  letters, 
I  have  been  influenced  by  the  desire  to  let  them 
show  him  in  his  daily  and  familiar  life,  with  the 
easy  gayety  and  love  of  humor  which  was  as 
natural  to  him  as  the  deep  and  solemn  medi- 
tations which  absorbed  the  larger  part  of  his 
mind.  They  are  very  far  from  elaborate  com- 
positions, being  rather  relaxations  from  labor, 
and  he  thought  very  slightly  of  them  himself; 
yet  I  think  they  will  present  the  real  man  as 
nothing  but  such  careless  and  conversational 
writing  can. 

No  letters  of  his  boyhood  have  been  preserved, 
and  very  few  of  his  youth.  This,  to  Dr.  Chan- 
ning,  was  probably  written  at  Plymouth,  while 
there  on  an  exchange  of  pulpits,  soon  after  his 
ordination  at  New  Bedford :  — 

To  Rev.  William  Ellery  Channing,  D.D. 

Plymouth,  Dec.  27,  1823. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  was  scarcely  disappointed  at  your  not 
coming  to  my  ordination,  and  indeed  I  have  felt  all 
along  that,  if  you  could  not  preach,  I  had  much  rather 
see  you  at  a  more  quiet  and  leisurely  time.  I  thank 
you  for  the  hope  you  have  given  me  of  this  in  the  sug- 
gestion you  made  to  Mr.  Tuckerman.  When  the  warm 
season  comes,  I  pray  you  to  give  Mrs.  Dewey  and  me 
the  pleasure  of  trying  what  we  can  do  to  promote  your 
comfort  and  health,  and  of  enjoying  your  society  for  a 
week. 


Letters.  133 

Our  ordination  was  indeed  very  pleasant,  and  our 
prospects  are  becoming  every  day  more  encouraging. 
The  services  of  that  occasion  were  attended  with  the 
most  gratifying  and  useful  impression.  Our  friend,  Mr. 
Tuckerman,  preached  more  powerfully,  and  produced  a 
greater  effect,  than  I  had  supposed  he  ever  did.  I  must 
remind  you,  however,  that  his  sermon,  like  every  good 
sermon,  had  its  day  when  it  was  delivered.  We  cannot 
print  the  pathos,  nor  you  read  the  fervor,  with  which  it 
was  spoken. 

I  have  had  no  opportunity  to  express  to  you  the  very 
peculiar  and  high  gratification  with  which  I  have  re- 
ceived the  late  expression  of  the  liberality  and  kindness 
of  your  society,  nor  can  it  be  necessary.  ^  I  cannot  fail 
to  add,  however,  that  the  pleasure  is  greatly  enhanced 
by  the  knowledge  that  I  owe  the  occasion  of  it  to  your 
suggestion. 

I  hope  to  visit  Boston  this  winter,  or  early  in  the 
spring.  I  often  feel  as  if  I  had  a  burden  of  questions 
which  I  wish  to  propose  to  you  for  conversation.  The 
want  of  this  resource  and  satisfaction  is  one  of  the  princi- 
pal reasons  that  make  me  regret  my  distance  from  Bos- 
ton. I  shall  always  remember  the  weeks  I  spent  with 
you,  two  years  ago,  with  more  interest  than  I  shall  ever 
feel  it  proper  to  express  to  you.  It  is  one  of  my  most 
joyful  hopes  of  heaven,  that  such  intercourse  shall  be 
renewed,  and  exalted  and  perpetuated  forever. 

To  the  Same. 

New  Bedford,  Sept.  21,  1824  (?). 
Dear  Sir,  —  I  thank  you  for  your  letter  and  invitation. 
...  The  result  of  your  going  to  Boston  is  what  I 
1  See  p.  5a 


1 34  Letters. 

feared,  and  it  seems  too  nearly  settled  that  nothing  will 
give  you  health,  but  a  different  mind,  or  a  different  mode 
of  life.  Quintilian  advises  the  orator  to  retire  before  he 
is  spent,  and  says  that  he  can  still  advance  the  object  of 
his  more  active  and  laborious  pursuits  by  conversing,  by 
publishing,  and  by  teaching  others,  youths,  to  follow  in  his 
steps.  I  do  not  quote  this  advice  to  recommend  it,  if  it 
were  proper  for  me  to  recommend  anything.  But  I  have 
often  revolved  the  courses  that  might  preserve  your  life, 
and  make  it  at  once  happy  to  yourself  and  useful  to  us, 
for  many  years  to  come.  I  cannot  admit  any  plan  that 
would  dismiss  you  altogether  from  the  pulpit,  nor  do  I 
believe  that  any  such  could  favor  your  happiness  or  your 
health.  But  could  you  not  limit  yourself  to  preaching, 
say  ten  times  in  a  year  {^provided  one  of  them  be  in  New 
Bedford^  ?  and  will  you  permit  me  to  ask,  nor  question 
my  modesty  in  doing  so,  if  you  could  not  spend  a  part 
of  the  year  in  a  leisurely  preparation  of  something  for 
the  press  ?  I  fear  that  your  MSS.,  and  I  mean  your  ser- 
mons now,  would  suffer  by  any  other  revisal  and  publi- 
cation than  your  own.  With  regard  to  the  last  suggestion 
of  Quintilian's,  I  have  supposed  that  it  has  been  fairly 
before  you  ;  but  perhaps  I  have  already  said  more  than 
becomes  me.  If  so,  I  am  confident  at  least  that  I  de- 
serve your  pardon  for  my  good  intentions;  and  with 
these,  I  am,  dear  sir,  most  truly  as  well  as 
Respectfully  your  friend, 

O.  Dewey. 

I  am  tempted  to  introduce  here  a  sketch  of  my 
father  as  he  appeared  in  those  early  days,  writ- 
ten by  Rev.  W.  H.  Channing,  for  the  London 
"Enquirer"  of  April  13,  1882:  — 


Letters.  135 

**  It  so  happened  then  to  me,  while  a  youth  of  twelve 
or  fifteen  years  in  training  at  the  Boston  Latin  School 
for  Harvard  University,  that  Dr.  Dewey  became  a 
familiar  guest  in  my  mother's  hospitable  house.  He  was 
at  this  period  the  temporary  minister  of  Federal  Street 
Church,  while  Dr.  Channing  was  seeking  to  renew  his 
wasted  energies,  for  better  work,  in  Europe.  And  on 
Mondays  —  after  his  exhausting  outpourings  of  Sunday 
—  he  was  wont  to  '  drop  in,  while  passing,'  to  talk  over 
the  themes  of  his  discourse,  or  for  friendly  interchange 
of  thought  and  sympathy.  A  special  attraction  was  that 
the  Misses  Cabot,  the  elder  of  whom  became  a  few 
years  later  Mrs.  Charles  Follen  (both  of  whom  will  be 
remembered  by  English  friends),  made  a  common  home 
with  my  mother ;  and  the  radiant  intelligence,  glowing 
enthusiasm,  hearty  affectionateness,  and  genial  merri- 
ment of  these  bright-witted  sisters  charmed  him.  Some- 
times they  probed  with  penetrating  questions  the  mystical 
metaphysics  of  the  preceding  day's  sermon.  Then,  deeply 
stirred,  and  all  on  fire  with  truths  dawning  on  his  vision, 
he  would  rise  from  his  chair  and  slowly  pace  the  room, 
in  a  half  soliloquy,  half  rejoinder.  At  these  times  of 
high-wrought  emotion  his  aspect  was  commanding.  His 
head  was  rounded  Hke  a  dome,  and  he  bore  it  erect,  as 
if  its  weight  was  a  burden ;  his  eyes,  blue-gray  in  tint, 
were  gentle,  while  gleaming  with  inner  light ;  the  nostrils 
were  outspread,  as  if  breathing  in  mountain-top  air ;  and 
the  mobile  lips,  the  lower  of  which  protruded,  apparently 
measured  his  deliberately  accented  words  as  if  they  were 
coins  stamped  in  the  mint.  It  was  intense  delight  for  a 
boy  to  listen  to  these  luminous  self-unfoldings,  embodied 
in  rhythmic  speech.  They  moved  me  more  profoundly 
even  than  the  suppressed  feeling  of  his  awe-struck  prayers, 


1 36  Letters. 

or  the  fluent  fervor  of  his  pulpit  addresses ;  for  they  raised 
the  veil,  and  admitted  one  into  his  Holy  of  holies.  At 
other  times,  literary  or  artistic  themes,  the  newest  poem, 
novel,  picture,  concert,  came  up  for  discussion ;  and  as 
these  ladies  were  verse- writers,  essayists,  critics,  and 
lovers  of  beauty  in  all  forms,  the  conversations  called  out 
the  rich  genius  and  complex  tendencies  and  aptitudes  of 
Dr.  Dewey  in  stimulating  suggestions,  which  were  re- 
freshing as  spring  breezes.  His  mind  gave  hospitable 
welcome  to  each  new  fact  disclosed  by  science,  to  all 
generous  hopes  for  human  refinement  and  ennobling 
ideals,  while  his  discernment  was  keen  to  detect  false 
sentiment  or  flashy  sophisms.  Again,  some  startling 
event  would  bring  conventional  customs  and  maxims  to 
the  judgment-bar  of  pure  Christian  ethics,  when  his 
moral  indignation  blazed  forth  with  impartial  equity 
against  all  degrading  views  of  human  nature,  debasing 
prejudices,  and  distrust  of  national  progress,  —  sparing 
no  tyrant,  however  wealthy  or  high  in  station ;  pleading 
for  the  downcast,  however  lowly ;  hoping  for  the  fallen, 
however  scorned.  Thanks  to  this  clear-sighted  moralist, 
he  gave  me,  in  his  own  example,  a  standard  of  generous 
Optimism  too  sun-bright  ever  to  be  eclipsed.  Let  it 
not  be  inferred  from  these  hasty  outlines,  however,  that 
Dr.  Dewey  was  habitually  grave,  or  intent  on  serious 
topics  solely,  in  social  intercourse.  So  far  from  this,  he 
continually  startled  one  by  his  swift  transitions  from 
solemn  discourse  to  humorous  descriptions  of  persons, 
places,  experiences.  And  as  the  Misses  Cabot  and  my 
mother  alike  regarded  healthful  laughter,  cheery  sallies, 
and  childlike  gayety  as  a  wise  relief  for  overwrought 
brains  or  high-strung  sensibilities,  our  fireside  sparkled 
with  brilliant  repartees  and  scintillating  mirth.     It  is 


Letters.  137 

pleasantly  remembered  that,  in  such  by-play,  Dr.  Dewey, 
while  often  satirical,  and  prone  to  good-tempered  banter, 
was  never  cynical,  and  was  intolerant  of  personal  gossip  or 
the  intrusion  of  mean  slander.  And  to  close  the  chapter 
of  boyhood's  acquaintance,  it  is  gratefully  recalled  how 
cordially  sympathetic  this  earnest  apostle  was  with  my 
youthful  studies,  trials,  aspirations.  All  recollections,  in- 
deed, of  my  uncle's  curate  —  whom,  as  is  well-known, 
he  wished  to  become  his  colleague  —  are  charming ; 
and  before  my  matriculation  at  Harvard,  one  of  my 
most  trusted  religious  guides  was  Orville  Dewey." 

The  Wares,  both  Henry  and  William,  were 
among  my  father's  dearest  friends  at  this  time, 
and  the  intimacy  was  interrupted  only  by  death. 

To  Rev.  Henry  Ware. 

New  Bedford,  Feb.  2,  1824. 
My  Dear  Friend,  — 

There  is  a  great  cause  committed  to  us,  —  not  that  of  a 
party,  but  that  of  principles.  A  contest  as  important  as 
that  of  the  Reformation  is  to  pass  here,  and  I  trust,  — 
though  with  trembling,  —  I  trust  in  God  that  it  is  to  be 
maintained  with  a  better  spirit.  I  cannot  help  feeling 
that  generations  as  boundless  as  shall  spread  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  shores  wait  for  the  result.  The 
importance  of  everything  that  is  doing  for  the  improve- 
ment of  this  country  is  fast  swelling  to  infinitude.  These, 
dear  sir,  are  some  of  my  dreams,  I  fear  I  must  call  them, 
rather  than  waking  thoughts.  It  seems  to  me  not  a  little 
to  know  the  age  and  country  we  live  in.  I  think,  and 
think,  and  think  that  something  must  be  done,  and  often 


138  Letters. 

I  feel,  and  feel,  and  feel  that  I  do  nothing.  What  can 
we  do  to  make  ourselves  and  others  aware  of  our  Chris- 
tian duties  and  of  the  signs  of  this  time  ? 

There  is  one  comfort,  —  Unitarianism  will  succeed 
just  as  far  as  it  is  worthy  of  it,  —  and  there  are  some 
forms  of  practical  Unitarianism  that  ought  not  to  meet 
with  any  favor  in  the  world.  If  the  whole  mass  becomes 
of  this  character,  let  it  go  down,  till  another  wave  of 
providence  shall  bring  it  up  again. 

But  enough  of  this  preaching :  you  think  of  all 
these  things,  and  a  thousand  more,  better  than  I  can  say 
them.  I  turn  to  your  letter.  Elder  H.,  for  whom  you 
ask,  is  a  very  good  man,  —  very  friendly  to  me ;  but 
he  is  a  terrible  fanatic.  He  has  Unitarian  revivals  that 
might  match  with  any  of  them.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that 
the  Christians,  as  they  call  themselves.  Unitarian  as  they 
are,  form  the  most  extravagant,  fiery,  fanatical  sect  in  this 
country. 

Mrs.  Dewey  desires  very  friendly  regards  to  Mrs. 
Ware,  of  whose  continued  illness  we  are  concerned  to 
hear.  Let  my  kind  remembrance  be  joined  with  my 
wife's,  and  believe  me  very  truly, 

Your  friend  and  brother, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

New  Bedford,  Feb.  14,  1824. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  cannot  repress  the  inclination 
to  offer  you  my  sympathy.-^     I  have  often  thought  with 

1  Mrs.  Ware  died  in  the  interval  between  those  two  letters. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Waterhouse,  of  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.  In  1827  Mr.  Ware  was  again  married  to  Miss 
Mary  Lovell  Pickard. 


Letters.  139 

pain  of  what  was  coming  upon  you  ;  and  I  fear,  though 
long  threatening,  it  has  come  at  last  with  a  weight  which 
you  could  hardly  have  anticipated.  May  God  sustain 
and  comfort  you  !  You  are  supported,  I  well  know, 
while  you  are  afflicted,  in  every  recollection  of  what  you 
have  lost.  Surely  the  greatness  of  your  trial  argues  the 
kindness  of  Heaven,  for  it  proves  the  greatness  of  the 
blessing  you  have  enjoyed. 

But,  my  dear  sir,  I  will  not  urge  upon  you  words 
which  are  but  words,  and  touch  not  the  terrible  reality 
that  occupies  your  mind.  You  want  not  the  poor  and 
cold  sayings  of  one  who  knows  not  —  who  cannot  know 
—  what  you  suffer.  You  need  not  the  aids  of  reflection 
from  me.  But  you  need  what,  in  common  with  your 
friends,  I  would  invoke  for  you,  —  the  aid,  the  consolation 
that  is  divine.  God  grant  it  to  you,  —  all  that  affection 
can  ask, — all  that  affliction  can  need,  — prays 
Your  friend  and  brother, 

O.  Dewey. 

To  Dr.   Channing. 

New  Bedford,  Oct.  16,  1827. 

My  Dear  and  Revered  Friend,  —  Excuse  me  for 
calling  you  so ;  may  the  formalities  and  the  English  re- 
serves excuse  me  too. 

I  have  had  two  letters  from  New  York,  one  from  Mr. 
Sewall,  and  the  other  from  Mr.  Ware,  which  are  so  press- 
ing as  really  to  give  me  some  trouble.  Do  say  something 
to  me  on  this  subject,  if  you  have  anything  to  say. 
There  certainly  are  many  reasons,  and  strong  as  numer- 
ous, why  I  should  not  at  present  leave  New  Bedford,  — 
why  I  should  not  take  such  a  post.  I  cannot  say  I  am 
made  to  doubt  what  I  ought  to  do ;  but  I  have  a  fear  lest 


140  Letters. 

I  should  not  do  right,  lest  I  should  love  my  ease  too 
well,  lest  it  should  be  said  to  me  in  the  other  world,  "  A 
great  opportunity,  a  glorious  field  was  opened  to  you, 
and  you  did  not  improve  it,"  —  lest,  in  other  words,  I 
should  not  act  upon  considerations  sufficiently  high,  com- 
prehensive, and  disinterested,  —  fit,  in  short,  for  contem- 
plation from  the  future  world  as  well  as  from  the  present. 

I  do  not  write  asking  you  to  reply ;  for  I  do  not  sup- 
pose you  have  anything  to  say  which  you  would  not  have 
suggested  when  I  was  with  you.  Indeed,  I  believe  I 
write,  as  much  as  for  anything,  because  I  want  to  com- 
municate with  you  about  something,  and  this  is  upper- 
most in  my  mind. 

Present  my  affectionate  regards  to  Mrs.  Channing  and 
the  children,  and  to  Miss  Gibbs. 

Yours  most  affectionately, 

O.  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry  Ware. 

New  Bedford,  March  29, 1829. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  cannot  let  you  go  off  without 
my  blessing.  I  did  not  know  of  your  purpose  till  last 
evening,  or  I  should  not  have  left  myself  to  write  to 
you  in  the  haste  of  a  few  minutes  snatched  on  Sunday 
evening,  to  say  nothing  of  the  aching  nerves  and  the 
palsied  hand  that  usually  come  along  with  it.  By  the 
by,  I  have  a  good  mind  to  desire  you  to  propose  a  year's 
exchange  [for  me]  to  somebody  in  England.  If  you 
meet  with  a  man  who  is  neither  too  good  nor  too  bad, 
suppose  you  suggest  it  to  him,  —  not  as  from  me,  how- 
ever. 

I  should  think  that  a  man,  in  going  to  England,  would 
feel  the  evil  of  belonging  to  a  sect,  unless  that  sect 


Letters.  141 

embraced  all  the  good  and  wise  and  gifted,  —  which  can 
be  said  of  no  sect.  The  sectarianism  of  sects,  however, 
is  the  bad  thing.  These  are  necessary;  that  is  not 
necessary,  but  to  human  weakness.  But  fie  upon  dis- 
coursing to  a  man  who  is  just  stepping  on  shipboard ! 
May  it  bear  you  safely  !  May  it  tread  the  mountain 
wave  "  as  a  steed  that  knows  its  rider,"  and  is  conscious 
of  what  it  bears  from  us  !  My  heart  will  go  with  you  in 
a  double  sense ;  for  I  want  to  see  England,  —  I  want  to 
see  Italy,  and  the  Alps,  and  the  south  of  France.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  intend  to  do  all  this ;  and  I  am 
very  certain  not  to  do  any  of  it.  I  know  that  yours  will 
not  be  a  travelled  heart,  any  more  than  Goldsmith's. 
Let  me  lay  in  my  claim  for  as  many  of  its  kind  thoughts 
as  belong  to  me.  But  yet  more,  let  me  assure  you,  as 
the  exigency  demands,  that  for  every  one  you  have  thus 
to  render,  I  have  five  to  give  in  return. 

I  believe  you  will  not  be  sorry,  at  this  time,  that  my 
lines  and  words  are  few  and  far  between ;  for  your  leisure 
cannot  serve  to  read  many. 

Mrs.  D.  desires  her  best  wishes  to  you.  We  do  not 
know  whether  Mrs.  Ware  goes  with  you,  but  hope  she 
does. 

I  took  my  pen  feeling  as  if  I  had  not  a  word  to  say, 
but  —  God  bless  you  !  and  that  I  say  with  all  my 
heart.  Write  me  from  abroad  if  you  can,  but  make  no 
exertion  to  do  so.  Yours  as  ever, 

O.  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

New  Bedford,  Sept.  14, 1830. 
Dear  Ware,  —  I  ^vrite  down  the  good  old  compella- 
tion  here,  not  because  I  have  anything  in  particular  to  say 


/ 

142  Letters. 

to  you,  but  just  to  assure  myself  in  the  agreeable  con- 
viction that  you  are  again  within  sixty  miles  of  me.  When 
you  get  a  little  quiet,  when  matters  have  taken  some  form 
with  you,  when  you  have  seen  some  hundreds  of  people, 
and  answered  some  thousands  of  questions,  then  take 
your  pen  for  the  space  of  ten  minutes,  and  tell  me  of 
your  "  whereabouts,"  and  how  your  strength  and  spirits 
hold  out,  and  what  is  the  prospect. 

I  hope  you  will  not  disappoint  me  of  the  visit  this 
autumn,  for  I  want  to  talk  the  sun  down  and  the  stars  up 
with  you.  I  suppose  you  have  tales  enough  for  "a 
thousand  and  one  nights."  You  have  made  friends  here, 
moreover,  even  in  Rome,  —  some  by  hearsay,  and  others 
who  will  be  here  probably  in  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks. 
And  Mrs.  Ware  has  admirers  here.  Think  of  that,  sir  ! 
that  while  Mr.  W.  is  spoken  of  only  with  a  kind  of  rever- 
ence, the  lady  carries  off  all  the  charms  and  fascinations 
of  epithet.  But  alas  !  such  is  the  hard  fate  of  us  of  the 
wiser  sex.  There  are  other  senses  than  Saint  Paul's  in 
which  we  may  say,  "  Where  I  am  weak,  there  am  I 
strong." 

Pray  excuse  the  levity  (specific)  of  this  letter,  on  two 
grounds,  —  first,  that  I  am  very  heavy,  and  should  sink 
in  any  other  vessel ;  and,  secondly,  that  I  cannot  take  in 
any  of  the  weighty  matters,  because  I  have  no  room  for 
them. 

Mrs.  Dewey  joins  me  in  the  regards  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Ware,  with  which  I  am,         Most  truly  yours, 

O.  Dewey. 

In  less  than  three  years  from  this  time  the 
nervous  suffering  from  overwork  became  so  in- 
tense that  Mr.  Dewey  was  advised  to  go  abroad 


Letters.  143 

to  obtain  the  absolute  rest  from  labor  that  was 
impossible  here. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  May  2, 1833. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  am  about  to  go  abroad.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  that  huge,  half  pleasurable, 
half  painful  undertaking ;  or  shall  I  say,  rather,  that  both 
the  pleasure  and  the  pain  come  by  wholes,  and  not  by 
halves  ?  The  latter  I  feel  as  a  domestic  man,  for  I  must 
go  alone  ;  the  former  I  feel  as  a  civilized  man.  Civilized, 
I  say,  for  who  that  has  the  lowest  measure  of  educated 
intelligence  and  sensibihty  can  expect  to  tread  all  the 
classic  lands  of  the  world,  Greece  only  excepted,  without 
a  thrill  of  delight? 

If  you  should  think  that  I  had  written  thus  much  as 
claiming  your  sympathy  in  what  so  much  interests  me, 
and  if  you  should  think  this  without  accusing  me  of  pre- 
sumption, I  should  be  tempted,  were  I  assured  of  the 
fact,  to  stop  here,  and  to  leave  the  matter  on  a  footing 
so  gratifying  to  my  feelings.  But  I  must  not  venture  to 
take  so  considerable  a  risk,  and  must  therefore  hasten  to 
tell  you  that  what  I  have  said  is  only  a  vestibule  to  some- 
thing further. 

Nor  is  the  vestibule  at  all  too  large  or  imposing  for  the 
object,  as  I  conceive  it,  to  which  it  is  to  open  the  way ; 
for  I  am  about  to  ask  through  you,  if  you  will  consent 
and  condescend  to  be  the  medium,  a  very  considerable 
favor  of  a  very  distinguished  man.  Among  many  letters 
of  introduction  which  I  have  received,  it  so  happens,  as 
they  say  in  Parliament,  that  I  can  obtain  none  to  certain 
persons  that  I  want  to  see  quite  as  much  as  any  others 


144  Letters. 

in  Europe.  None  of  our  Boston  gentlemen  that  I  can 
find  are  acquainted  with  Professor  Wilson,  or  Miss 
Terrier,  the  author  of  "  Inheritance,"  or  Thomas  Moore, 
or  Campbell,  or  Bulwer.  The  "  Noctes  Ambrosianae," 
with  other  things,  have  made  me  a  great  admirer  of 
Wilson ;  and  Miss  Ferriers  (I  don't  know  whether  her 
name  ends  with  s  or  not)  I  had  rather  see  than  any 
woman  in  Europe.  She  comes  nearer  to  Sir  Walter,  I 
think,  than  any  writer  of  fiction  abroad,  and  in  depth  of 
religious  sentiment  goes  very  far  beyond  him.  Now,  I 
presume  that  Washington  Irving  is  acquainted  with  all 
these  individuals ;  and  what  I  venture  to  ask  is,  whether, 
through  your  intervention,  letters  can  be  obtained  fi-om 
him  to  any  of  them,  and  especially  to  the  two  first. 

Now  I  must  make  you  comprehend  how  little  I  wish 
you  to  go  out  of  your  way,  or  to  put  any  constraint  on 
yourself  in  the  matter.  I  have  none  of  the  passion  for 
seeing  celebrated  men,  merely  as  such.  Those  whose 
writings  have  interested  me,  I  do,  of  course,  wish  to  see  ; 
but  I  am  to  be  too  hasty  a  traveller  to  make  it  a  great 
object  to  see  them,  or  to  go  very  much  ouj;  of  my  way 
for  it.  Above  all,  if  you  have  the  least  reluctance  to  ask 
this  of  Mr.  Irving,  you  must  allow  me  to  impose  it  as  a 
condition  of  my  request  that  you  will  not  do  it ;  or  if  Mr. 
Irving  is  reluctant  to  give  the  letters,  do  not  undertake 
to  tell  me  so  with  any  circumlocution,  for  I  understand  all 
about  the  delicacy  of  these  Transatlantic  connections.  I 
only  fear  that  the  very  length  of  this  letter  will  convey 
to  you  an  undue  impression  of  the  importance  which  I 
give  to  the  subject  of  it.  Pray  construe  it  not  so,  but  set 
it  down  as  one  of  the  involuntary  consequences  of  the 
pleasure  I  have  in  conversing  with  you.  Very  truly  your 
friend,  Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  145 

The  letters,  and  every  other  advantage  that  the 
kindness  of  friends  could  provide,  were  given 
him,  and  the  mingled  anticipations  with  which  he 
entered  on  his  year  of  solitary  exile  were  all  ful- 
filled. His  enjoyment  in  the  wonders  of  nature 
and  of  art,  in  society,  and  in  the  charm  of  histori- 
cal and  romantic  association  which  is  the  pecul- 
iar pleasure  to  an  American  of  travel  in  the  Old 
World,  was  very  great,  and  the  relief  to  his  brain 
from  the  weekly  pressure  of  original  production 
gave  him  ease  for  the  present  and  hope  for  the 
future.  But  the  year  was  darkened  for  him  by 
the  death  of  his  youngest  sister,  who  had  been 
married  the  previous  summer  to  Mr.  Andrew  L. 
Russell,  of  Plymouth,  and  of  his  wife's  brother, 
John  Hay  Farnham,  of  Indiana ;  and  when  he  re- 
turned home,  three  months'  work  convinced  him 
that  arduous  and  prolonged  mental  labor  was 
henceforth  impossible  for  him.  With  deep  disap- 
pointment and  sorrow,  he  resigned  his  charge  at 
New  Bedford,  and  left  the  place  and  people 
which  had  been  and  always  remained  very  dear 
to  him. 

Few  are  left  of  those  who  heard  his  first  preach- 
ing there.  One  of  his  sisters  says :  "  To  me, 
brought  up  on  the  Orthodoxy  of  Berkshire,  it  was 
like  a  revelation,  and  I  think  it  was  much  the  same 
to  the  Quakers.  Those  views  of  life  and  human 
nature  and  its  responsibilities  that  are  common 
now,  were  new  then,  and  the  effect  produced 
upon  us  all  was  most  thrilling  and  solemn ;  and 
10 


146  Letters. 

when,  service  over,  we  passed  out  of  the  church, 
I  remember  there  were  very  few  words  spoken,  — 
a  contrast  to  the  custom  nowadays  of  chatting 
and  laughing  at  the  door."  I  have  heard  others 
speak  of  the  overwhelming  pathos  of  his  manner, 
and  I  asked  the  Rev.  Dr.  Morison,  who  came  to 
New  Bedford  as  a  young  man  during  the  last 
years  of  our  stay  there,  to  put  some  of  his  per- 
sonal remembrances  on  paper.  In  a  note  from 
him,  dated  loth  January,  1883,  he  says:  "  I  have 
not  forgotten  my  promise  to  send  you  some  little 
account  of  your  father's  preaching  in  New  Bed- 
ford. He  was  so  great  a  man,  uttering  himself  in 
his  preaching,  the  sources  of  his  power  lay  so 
deep,  his  words  came  to  us  so  vitally  connected 
with  the  most  subtle  and  effective  forces  of  the 
moral  and  spiritual  universe,  that  I  can  no  more 
describe  him  than  I  could  a  June  day,  in  all  its 
glory  and  beauty  and  its  boundless  resources  of 
joy  and  life,  to  one  who  had  never  known  it." 

The  following  pages,  which  Dr.  Morison  was 
nevertheless  kind  enough  to  send,  have  touching 
value  and  beauty :  — 

"  More  than  half  a  century  ago,  in  March,  1832, 1  went 
to  New  Bedford,  and,  for  nearly  a  year,  was  a  constant 
attendant  at  Mr.  Dewey's  church.  During  that  year  he 
preached  most  of  the  sermons  contained  in  the  first  vol- 
ume that  he  published.  As  we  read  them,  they  are 
among  the  ablest  and  most  impressive  sermons  in  the 
language.  But  when  read  now  they  give  only  a  slight 
idea  of  what  they  were  as  they  came  to  us  then,  all 


Letters.  147 

glowing  and  alive  with  the  emotions  of  the  preacher. 
When  he  walked  through  the  church  to  the  pulpit,  his 
head  swaying  backward  and  forward  as  if  too  heavily- 
freighted,  his  whole  bearing  was  that  of  one  weighed 
down  by  the  thoughts  in  which  he  was  absorbed  and  the 
solemn  message  which  he  had  come  to  deliver.  The 
old  prophetic  '  burden  of  the  Lord '  had  evidently  been 
laid  upon  him.  Some  hymn  marked  by  its  depth  of 
religious  feeling  was  read.  This  was  followed  by  a 
prayer,  which  was  not  the  spontaneous,  easy  outflowing 
of  calmly  reverential  feelings,  but  the  labored  utterance 
of  a  soul  overawed  and  overburdened  by  emotions  too 
strong  for  utterance.  There  was  sometimes  an  appear- 
ance almost  of  distress  in  this  exercise,  so  utterly  inade- 
quate, as  it  seemed  to  him,  were  any  words  of  his  to 
express  what  lay  deepest  in  his  mind,  when  thus  brought 
face  to  face  with  God.  '  I  do  not  shrink,'  he  said, 
*  from  speaking  to  man.'  But,  except  in  his  rarest  and 
best  moments,  he  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  the  pov- 
erty of  any  language  of  thanksgiving  or  suppUcation  that 
he  could  use  in  his  intercourse  with  God. 

"  His  manner  in  preaching  was  marked  by  great  depth 
and  strength  of  feeling,  but  always  subdued.  He  spoke 
on  great  subjects.  He  entered  profoundly  into  them, 
and  treated  them  with  extraordinary  intellectual  ability 
and  clearness.  They  who  were  seeking  for  hght  found 
it  in  his  preachmg.  But  more  than  any  intellectual  pre- 
cision or  clearness  of  thought  was  to  be  gained  from  him 
in  his  treatment  of  the  momentous  questions  which  pre- 
sent themselves,  sooner  or  later,  to  every  thoughtful 
mind.  Behind  these  questions,  more  important  than 
any  one  or  all  of  them  intellectually  considered,  was  the 
realm  of  thought,   emotion,   aspiration,  out   of  which 


148  Letters. 

religious  ideas  are  formed,  and  in  which  the  highest  fac- 
ulties of  our  nature  are  to  find  their  appropriate  nour- 
ishment and  exercise.  He  spoke  to  us  as  one  who 
belonged  to  this  higher  world.  The  realm  in  which  he 
lived,  and  which  seemed  never  absent  from  his  mind, 
impressed  itself  as  he  spoke,  and  gave  a  deeper  solem- 
nity and  attractiveness  to  his  words  than  could  be  given 
by  any  specific  and  clearly-defined  ideas.  A  sense  of 
mystery  and  awe  pervaded  his  teachings,  and  infused 
into  his  utterances  a  sentiment  of  divine  sacredness  and 
authority.  He  preached  as  I  never,  before  or  since, 
have  heard  any  one  else,  on  human  nature,  on  retribu- 
tion, on  the  power  of  kindness,  on  life  and  death,  in 
their  relations  to  man  and  to  what  is  divine.  He  stood 
before  us  compassed  about  by  a  religious  atmosphere 
which  penetrated  his  inmost  nature,  and  gave  its  tone 
and  coloring  to  all  he  said.  For  he  spoke  as  one  who 
saw  rising  visibly  before  him  the  issues  of  life  and  of 
death. 

"  He  was  gifted  with  a  rare  dramatic  talent.  But  it 
was  a  gift,  not  an  art,  and  showed  itself  in  voice  and 
gesture  as  by  the  natural  impulse  of  a  great  nature  pro- 
foundly moved,  and  in  its  extremest  manifestations  so 
subdued  as  to  leave  the  impression  of  a  vast  underlying 
reserved  force.  His  action,  so  full  of  meaning  and  so 
effective,  was  no  studied  or  superficial  movement  of 
hand  and  voice,  but  the  action  of  the  whole  man,  body 
and  soul,  all  powerfully  quickened  and  moved  from 
within  by  the  living  thoughts  and  emotions  to  which  he 
was  giving  utterance. 

"  I  have  heard  many  of  the  greatest  orators  of  our  time. 
But,  with  the  exception  of  Daniel  Webster  and  Dr.  Chan- 
ning  in  their  highest  moments,  Mr.  Dewey  was  the  most 


Letters.  149 

eloquent  man  among  them  all,  and  that  not  once  or 
twice,  on  great  occasions,  but  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
forenoon  and  afternoon,  for  months  together. 

"  Some  allowance  should  perhaps  be  made  for  the  state 
of  mind  and  the  period  of  life  in  which  I  heard  him. 
I  had  just  come  from  college,  where  the  intellect  had 
been  cultivated  in  advance  of  the  moral  and  religious 
faculties.  The  equilibrium  which  belongs  to  a  perfectly 
healthy  and  harmonious  nature  was  disturbed,  and,  as  a 
necessary  consequence  of  this  unbalanced  and  distem- 
pered condition,  there  was  a  deep  inward  unrest,  and  a 
craving  for  something,  —  the  greatest  of  all,  —  which 
had  not  yet  been  attained.  Mr.  Dewey's  preaching 
came  in  just  at  this  critical  time,  and  it  was  to  me  the 
opening  into  a  new  world.  The  hymn,  the  prayer,  the 
Scripture  reading,  usually  brought  me^  into  a  reverent 
and  plastic  state  of  mind,  ready  to  receive  and  be 
moulded  by  the  deepest  and  loftiest  Christian  truths. 
From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  sermon  I  was 
under  the  spell  which  he  had  thrown  over  me,  and  un- 
conscious of  everything  else.  Very  seldom  during  my 
life,  and  then  only  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time,  has  any 
one,  by  his  eloquence,  exercised  this  absorbing  and 
commanding  influence  over  me.  Once  or  twice  in 
hearing  Dr.  Channing  I  felt  as  I  suppose  the  prophet 
may  have  felt  when  he  heard  '  the  still  small  voice,'  at 
which  '  he  wrapped  his  face  in  his  mantle,'  and  listened 
as  to  the  voice  of  God.  A  few  such  experiences  I  have 
had  with  other  men ;  but  with  Mr.  Dewey  more  than 
with  all  others.  And  when  the  benediction  was  pro- 
nounced, I  wished  to  go  away  and  be  by  myself  in  the 
new  world  of  spiritual  ideas  and  emotions  into  which  I 
had  been  drawn.    Those  were  to  me  great  experiences, 


1 50  Letters. 

inwrought  into  the  inmost  fibres  of  my  nature,  and 
always  associated  in  my  mind  with  Mr.  Dewey's 
preaching. 

"  Nor  were  these  experiences  peculiar  to  any  one  per- 
son. The  audience  as  a  whole  were  affected  in  a  simi- 
lar manner.  A  deep  solenmity  pervaded  the  place. 
There  was  not  merely  silence,  but  the  spell  of  absorbed 
attention  that  makes  itself  felt,  and  spreads  itself  as  by 
a  general  sympathy  through  a  congregation  profoundly 
moved  by  great  thoughts  filled  out  and  made  alive  by 
deep  and  uplifting  emotions.  The  exercises  in  the 
church  were  often  followed  by  lasting  convictions.  The 
Sunday's  sermon  was  the  topic,  not  of  curious  discussion 
or  indiscriminate  eulogy,  but  of  serious  conversation 
among  the  young,  who  looked  fonvard  to  the  coming 
Sunday  as  offering  privileges  which  it  would  be  a  mis- 
fortune to  lose.  The  services  of  the  church  were  re- 
membered and  anticipated  as  the  most  interesting  and 
important  event  of  the  week. 

"  I  shall  never  cease  to  think  with  gratitude  of  Mr. 
Dewey's  preaching.  In  common  with  other  great 
preachers  of  our  denomination,  —  Dr.  Channing,  for  ex- 
ample. Dr.  Nichols,  and  Dr.  Walker,  —  he  spoke  as  one 
standing  within  the  all-encompassing  and  divine  pres- 
ence. He  awakened  in  us  a  sense  of  that  august  and 
indefinable  influence  from  which  all  that  is  holiest  and 
best  must  come.  He  brought  us  into  communication 
with  that  Light  of  life.  He  showed  us  how  our  lives, 
our  thoughts,  and  even  our  every-day  acts,  may  be 
sanctified  and  inspired  by  it,  as  every  plant  and  tree  is 
not  only  illuminated  by  the  sun  but  vitally  associated 
with  it. 

"  If,  in  the  light  of  later  experience,  I  were  to  criticise 


Letters.  151 

the  preaching  I  then  heard,  I  should  say  that  it  was  too 
intense.  The  writing  and  the  delivery  of  such  sermons 
subjected  the  preacher  to  too  severe  a  strain  both  of  body 
and  mind.  No  man  could  go  on  preaching  in  that  way, 
from  month  to  month,  without  breaking  down  in  health. 
And  it  may  be  questioned  whether  a  mind  acting  un- 
der so  high  a  pressure  is  in  the  best  condition  to  take 
just  views,  to  preserve  its  proper  equipoise,  or  to  impart 
wise  and  healthful  instruction.  The  stimulus  given  may 
be  too  strong  for  the  best  activity  of  those  who  receive 
it.  They  whose  sensitive  natures  are  most  deeply  af- 
fected by  such  an  example  may,  under  its  influence, 
unconsciously  form  an  ideal  of  intellectual  attainments 
too  exacting,  and  therefore  to  them  a  source  of  weakness 
rather  than  of  strength. 

"  The  danger  lies  in  these  directions.  But  Mr.  Dewey's 
breadth  of  apprehension,  his  steadfast  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion to  the  truth,  the  judicial  impartiality  with  which  he 
examined  the  whole  field  before  making  up  his  mind, 
saved  him  from  one-sided  or  ill-balanced  conclusions. 
And  the  intense  action  of  all  the  faculties  not  only 
enables  a  man  of  extraordinary  intellectual  powers  to 
impress  his  thought  on  others  and  infuse  his  very  soul 
into  theirs ;  but  it  also,  as  we  see  in  the  best  work  of 
Channing,  Dewey,  and  Emerson,  opens  to  them  realms 
of  thought  which  otherwise  might  never  have  been 
reached,  and  gives  to  them  glimpses  of  a  divine  love 
and  splendor  never  granted  to  a  less  earnest  and  pas- 
sionate devotion." 

In  the  autumn  of  1835  Mr.  Dewey  was  settled 
over  the  Second  Unitarian  Church  in  New  York, 
trusting  to  his  stock  of  already  written  discourses 


152  Letters. 

to  save  him  from  a  stress  of  intellectual  labor  too 
severe  for  his  suffering  brain,  which  was  never 
again  to  allow  him  uninterrupted  activity  in 
study.  When  his  life-work  is  viewed,  it  should 
always  be  remembered  under  what  difficulties  it 
was  carried  on.  It  was  work  that  taxed  every 
faculty  to  the  uttermost,  while  the  physical  organ 
of  thought  had  been  so  strained  by  over-exertion 
at  the  beginning  of  his  professional  career,  owing 
to  a  general  ignorance  of  the  bodily  laws  even 
greater  then  than  it  is  now,  that  the  use  of  it  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  his  life  was  like  that  which  a  man 
has  of  a  sprained  foot ;  causing  pain  in  the  present 
exercise,  and  threatening  far  worse  consequences, 
if  the  effort  is  continued.  Fortunately,  his  health 
in  all  other  respects  was  excellent,  and  his  spirits 
and  courage  seldom  flagged,  I  remember  him 
as  lying  much  on  the  sofa  in  those  days,  and  lik- 
ing to  have  his  head  "  scratched  "  by  the  hour 
together,  with  a  sharp-pointed  comb,  to  relieve 
by  external  irritation  the  distressing  sensations, 
which  he  compared  to  those  made,  sometimes 
by  a  tightening  ring,  sometimes  by  a  leaden  cap, 
and  sometimes  (but  this  was  in  later  life)  by  a  - 
dull  boring  instrument.  Yet  he  was  the  centre 
of  the  family  life,  and  of  its  merriment  as  well ; 
and  his  strong  social  instincts  and  lively  animal 
spirits  made  him  full  of  animation  and  vivacity  in 
society,  although  he  was  soon  tired,  and  with  a 
nervous  restlessness  undoubtedly  the  effect  of  dis- 
ease, never  wanted  to  stay  long  in  any  company. 


Letters.  '       153 

He  preached  a  sermon  after  the  great  fire  in 
New  York,  in  December,  1835,  which  drew  forth 
the  following  letter  from  Mr.  Henry  Ware :  — 

Cambridge,  Jan.  15,  1836. 

Dear  Friend,  —  I  must  acknowledge  your  sermon,  — 
you  made  me  most  happy  by  it.  It  was  so  true,  so 
right,  so  strongly  and  movingly  put ;  it  was  the  word 
that  ought  to  be  said,  the  word  in  season.  My  feeling 
was  :  God  Almighty  be  praised  for  sending  that  man  there 
to  speak  to  that  great  and  mighty  city,  and  to  interpret  to  it 
his  providence.  You  cannot  but  feel  gratitude  in  being 
appointed  to  be  such  an  instrument ;  and  I  trust  that  you 
are  to  be  used  much  and  long,  and  for  great  good. 
Keep  yourself  well  and  strong ;  look  on  yourself  as 
having  a  message  and  a  mission,  and  live  for  nothing 
else  but  to  perform  it. 

I  happen  to  have  found  out,  very  accidentally,  what  is 
always  the  most  secret  of  undiscoverable  secrets,  —  that 
you  are  asked  to  preach  the  Dudleian  Lecture.  Do  not 
let  -.anything  hinder  you.  We  want  you  :  you  must 
come ;  do  not  hesitate ;  and,  mind,  I  speak  first,  to 
have  you  come  and  house  it  with  me  while  you  are  in 
Cambridge.     Pray,  deny  me  not. 

Shall  I  tell  you  ?  Your  sermon  made  me  cry  so  that 
I  could  not  finish  reading  it,  but  was  obliged  to  lay  it 
down.  Not  from  its  pathos,  —  but  from  a  stronger, 
higher,  deeper,  holier  something  which  it  stirred  up.  I 
am  almost  afraid  for  you  when  I  think  what  a  responsi- 
bility lies  on  you  for  the  use  of  such  powers.  May  He 
that  gave  them  give  you  grace  with  them  !  Love  to  you 
and  yours,  and  all  peace  be  with  you.    Yours  ever, 

H.  Ware,  Jr. 


154       '  Letters. 

In  the  same  year  he  addressed  a  letter  to  Emer- 
son, who,  as  a  cousin  of  his  wife,  was  well  known 
to  him  from  the  first.  The  familiarity  of  the 
opening  recalls  what  he  said  in  writing  of  him  many 
years  after :  "  Waldo,  we  always  called  him  in 
those  days,  though  now  all  adjuncts  have  dropped 
away  from  the  shining  name  of  Emerson." 

To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.» 

Boston,  May  15, 1836. 

Dear  Waldo,  —  I  felt  much  disappointed  when,  on 
going  to  Hancock  Place  the  third  time,  I  found  that  you 
had  gone  to  Concord ;  for  I  was  drawn  to  you  as  by  a 
kind  of  spell.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  though  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  could  not  speak  to  you  one  word.  I  can  do 
no  more  now,  —  I  am  dumb  with  amazement  and  sor- 
row ;  1  and  yet  I  must  write  to  you,  were  it  only  to  drop 
a  tear  on  the  page  I  send.  Your  poor  mother  !  I  did 
not  know  she  had  come  with  you.  Miss  Hoar  2  I  do 
not  know,  and  will  intrude  no  message ;  but  I  think  of 
her  more  than  many  messages  could  express.  My  dear 
friend,  I  am  as  much  concerned  for  you  as  for  any  one. 
God  give  you  strength  to  comfort  others  !  Alas  !  we  all 
make  too  much  of  death.  Like  a  vase  of  crystal  that 
fair  form  was  shattered,  —  in  a  moment  shattered  !  Can 
such  an  event  be  the  catastrophe  we  make  it  ? 


1  This  letter  was  called  forth  by  the  sudden  death  of  Charles 
Chauncey  Emerson,  a  younger  brother  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, 
and  one  of  the  noblest  young  men  of  America, 

*  Miss  Hoar  was  betrothed  to  Charles  Emerson. 


Letters.  155 

1  preached  to-day  at  Chauncey  Place.^  I  will  copy 
a  passage.     (I  have  not  space  to  give  the  connection.) 

"  There  stood  once  where  now  I  stand,  a  father,  —  I 
knew  him  not,  but  to  some  of  you  he  was  known,  — 
who,  ere  his  children  were  trained  up  for  life,  was  called 
to  leave  them,  but  whose  fair  example  and  fervent 
prayer  visited  them,  and  dwelt  among  them,  and  helped, 
with  much  kindly  nurture,  to  form  them  to  learning,  vir- 
tue, honor,  and  to  present  them  to  the  world  a  goodly 
band  of  brothers.  And  say  not,  because  one  and 
another  has  fallen  on  the  threshold  of  life,  —  fallen 
amidst  the  brightest  visions  and  most  brilliant  promises 
of  youth,  —  that  it  is  all  in  vain  ;  that  parental  toils  and 
cares  and  prayers  are  all  in  vain.  There  is  another  hfe, 
where  every  exalted  power  trained  here  shall  find  expan- 
sion, improvement,  and  felicity.  [Those  sons  of  the 
morning,  who  stand  for  a  moment  upon  the  verge  of 
this  earthly  horizon  amidst  the  first  splendors  of  day, 
and  then  vanish  away  into  heaven,  as  if  translated,  not 
deceased,  seem  to  teach  us,  almost  by  a  sensible  manifes- 
tation, how  short  is  the  step  and  how  natural  is  the  pas- 
sage from  earth  to  heaven.^]  They  almost  open  heaven 
to  us,  and  they  help  our  languid  efforts  to  reach  it,  by 
the  most  powerful  of  all  earthly  aids,  —  the  memory  of 
admired  and  loved  virtues.  Yes,  the  mingled  sorrow 
and  affection  which  have  swelled  many  hearts  among  us 
within  the  last  week,  tell  me  that  the  excellence  we  have 
lost  has  not  lived  in  vain.     Precious  memory  of  early 

^  The  church  formerly  ministered  to  by  the  Rev.  William 
Emerson,  the  father  of  these  rare  sons. 

2  This  letter  is  taken  from  a  copy,  not  the  original ;  and  the 
meaning  of  the  brackets  is  uncertain.  Probably,  however,  the 
passage  which  they  enclose  is  a  quotation. 


1 56  Letters. 

virtue  and  piety !  and  such  memories,  and  more  than 
one  such,  there  are  among  you.  Hold  these  bright 
companions  ever  dear,  my  young  friends  ;  embalm  their 
memory  in  the  fragrant  breath  of  your  love  ;  follow  them 
with  the  generous  emulation  of  virtue ;  let  the  seal 
which  death  has  set  upon  excellence  stamp  it  with  a 
character  of  new  sanctity  and  authority ;  let  not  virtue 
die  and  friendship  mourn  in  vain  !  " 

Remember  me  with  most  affectionate  sympathy  to 
your  mother,  and  Aunt  Mary,  and  to  Dr.  Ripley. 

With  my  kind  regards  to  your  wife,  I  am,  dear  Waldo, 
in  love  and  prayer,  yours, 

O.  Dewey. 

Everybody  mourns  with  you.  Dr.  Channing  said 
yesterday,  "  I  think  Massachusetts  could  not  have  met 
with  a  greater  loss  than  of  that  young  man." 

Mr.  Emerson's  letter  in  reply  is  beautiful  in 
itself,  and  has  the  added  interest  attaching  now  to 
every  word  of  his :  — 

Concord,  May  23,  1836. 

My  Dear  Sir,  —  I  received  the  last  week  your  kind 
letter,  and  the  copy  of  your  affectionate  notice  of  Charles 
at  Chauncey  Place.  I  remember  how  little  while  ago 
you  consoled  us  by  your  sympathy  at  Edward's  de- 
parture, —  a  kind,  elevating  letter,  which  I  have  never 
acknowledged.  I  feel  as  if  it  was  kind,  even  com- 
passionate, to  remember  me  now  that  these  my  claims 
to  remembrance  are  gone. 

Charles's  mind  was  healthy,  and  had  opened  steadily 
(with  a  growth  that  never  ceased  from  month  to  month) 


Letters.  157 

under  favorable  circumstances.  His  critical  eye  was  so 
acute,  his  rest  on  himself  so  absolute,  and  his  power  of 
illustrating  his  thought  by  an  endless  procession  of  fine 
images  so  excellent,  that  his  conversation  came  to  be 
depended  on  at  home  as  daily  bread,  and  made  a  very 
large  part  of  the  value  of  life  to  me.  His  standard  of 
action  was  heroic,  —  I  believe  he  never  had  even  temp- 
tations to  anything  mean  or  gross.  With  great  value  for 
the  opinion  of  plain  men,  whose  habits  of  life  precluded 
compliment  and  made  their  verdict  unquestionable,  he 
held  perhaps  at  too  low  a  rate  the  praise  of  fashionable 
people,  —  so  that  he  steadily  withdrew  from  display,  and 
I  felt  as  if  nobody  knew  my  treasure.  Meantime,  like 
Aaron,  "  he  could  speak  well."  He  had  every  gift  for 
public  debate,  and  I  thought  we  had  an  orator  in  train- 
ing for  the  necessities  of  the  country,  who  should  de- 
serve the  name  and  the  rewards  of  eloquence.  But  it 
has  pleased  God  not  to  use  him  here.  The  Common- 
wealth, if  it  be  a  loser,  knows  it  not ;  but  I  feel  as  if  be- 
reaved of  so  much  of  my  sight  and  hearing. 

His  judgment  of  men,  his  views  of  society,  of  poHtics, 
of  religion,  of  books,  of  manners,  were  so  original  and 
wise  and  progressive,  that  I  feel  —  of  course  nobody 
can  think  as  I  do  —  as  if  an  oracle  were  silent. 

I  am  very  sorry  that  I  cannot  see  you,  —  did  not 
when  we  were  both  in  Boston.  My  mother  and  brother 
rejoice  in  your  success  in  New  York,  and  I  with  them. 
They  have  had  their  part  in  the  benefit.  I  hear  nothing 
of  the  aching  head,  and  hope  it  does  not  ache.  .  .  . 
Cannot  I  see  you  in  Concord  during  some  of  your  Boston 
visits  ?  I  will  lay  by  every  curious  book  or  letter  that  I 
can  think  might  interest  you.  My  cousin  Louisa,  I 
know,  would  be  glad  to  see  this  old  town,  and  the  old 


158  Letters. 

man  at  the  parsonage  whilst  he  is  yet  alive.     My  mother 
joins  me  in  sending  love  to  her. 

Yours  affectionately, 

R.  Waldo  Emerson. 

Mr.  Dewey's  mind  was  too  logical  in  its  methods 
for  entire  intellectual  sympathy  with  Mr.  Emer- 
son ;  but  that  he  thoroughly  appreciated  his  spir- 
itual insight  is  shown  by  the  following  passage 
from  a  manuscript  sermon  on  Law,  preached  13th 
August,  1868,  on  the  occasion  of  the  earthquake 
of  that  year  in  South  America :  — 

"But  the  law^  does  stand  fast.  Nothing  ever  did, 
ever  shall,  ever  can  escape  it.  Take  any  essence-drop 
or  particle  of  evil  into  your  heart  and  life,  and  you  shall 
pay  for  it  in  the  loss,  if  not  of  gold  or  of  honor,  yet  of 
the  finest  sense  and  the  finest  enjoyment  of  all  things 
divinest,  most  beautiful  and  most  blessed  in  your  being. 
I  know  of  no  writer  among  us  who  has  emphasized  this 
fact,  this  law,  more  sharply  than  Waldo  Emerson,  and  I 
commend  his  pages  to  you  in  this  view.  Freed  from  all 
conventionalism,  whether  religious  or  Scriptural,  though 
he  has  left  the  ranks  of  our  faith,  yet  he  has  gone,  bet- 
ter than  any  of  us,  to  the  very  depth  of  things  in  this 
matter." 

To  Rev.  William  Ware. 

New  York,  Nov.  7,  1836. 
My  Dear  Ware,  —  Shall  I  brood  over  my  regrets  in 
secret,  or  shall  I  tell  you  of  them  ?    I  sometimes  do  not 
care  whether  any  human  being  knows  what  is  passing  in 

1  Of  retribution. 


Letters.  159 

me ;  and  then  again  my  feelings  are  all  up  in  arms  for 
sympathy,  as  if  they  would  take  it  by  storm.  I  declare 
I  have  a  good  deal  of  liking  for  that  other,  —  that  suUen- 
ness,  or  sadness,  or  what  you  will ;  it  is  calmer  and 
more  independent.  So  I  shall  say  nothing,  only  that 
I  miss  you  even  more  than  I  expected.  ^  Never,  in  all 
this  great  city,  will  a  face  come  through  my  door  that  I 
shall  like  to  see  better  than  yours,  —  I  doubt  if  so  well. 

The  next  nearest  thing  to  you  is  Furness's  book.  Have 
you  got  it  ?  Is  it  not  charming  ?  It  is  a  book  of  beauty 
and  life.  Spots  there  are  upon  it,  —  they  say  there  are 
upon  the  sun.  Certes,  there  are  tendencies  to  natural- 
ism in  Furness's  mind  which  I  do  not  like,  —  do  not 
think  the  true  philosophy ;  but  it  is  full  of  beauty,  and 
hath  much  wisdom  in  it  too. 

I  write  on  the  gallop.  My  dinner  is  coming  in  three 
minutes,  and  a  wagon  is  coming  after  that  to  carry  me 
to  Berkshire,  that  is,  by  steamboat  to  Hudson  as  usual. 
But  I  am  going  to  send  this,  though  it  be  worth  nothing 
but  to  get  a  letter  from  you. 

If  letters,  like  dreams,  came  from  the  multitude  of 
business,  I  should  write  of  nothing  but  that  tragedy  ex- 
tempore, —  for  I  am  sure  it  was  got  up  in  a  minute,  — 
the  argument  whereof  was  your  running  away.  It  posi- 
tively is  the  staple  of  conversation.  And  I  think  it  is 
rather  hard  upon  me,  too.  /  am  here  ;  but  that  seems 
to  go  for  nothing.  All  their  talk  is  of  your  going  away, 
—  running  away,  I  say,  —  desertion,  —  and  help  your- 
self if  you  can.  .  .  . 

My  love  to  Henry  Ware,  and  the  love  of  me  and  mine 
to  you  and  yours.  Yours  ever, 

O.  Dewey. 
1  See  p.  86. 


l6o  Letters. 

To  the  Same. 

New  York,  Dec.  i,  1836. 

My  Dear  Sir  William,  —  For  a  prince  you  are  in 
letter-writing,  and  you  can  call  me  Lord  Orville,  for  I 
have  a  birthright  claim  to  that  title.^  Excuse  this  capri- 
cole  of  my  pen ;  it  has  been  drawing  hard  enough  at  a 
sermon  all  the  morning,  and  can't  help  cutting  a  caper 
when  it  is  let  out.  You  won't  get  the  due  return  for 
your  good  long  letter  this  time,  nor  ever,  I  think.  I 
am  taking  comfort  in  the  good  long  letters  that  are 
going  with  mine,  and  of  whose  sending  by  this  convey- 
ance I  am  the  cause. 

This  conveyance  is  Miss  Searle ;  and  if  you  and  Mrs. 
Ware  don't  cultivate  her,  or  let  her  cultivate  you,  your 
folly  will  be  inconceivable. 

Mrs.  Jameson  I  have  missed  two  or  three  chances  of 
seeing,  —  very  bright  sometimes,  and  very  foolish  others ; 
but  who  shall  resist  such  intoxicating  draughts  as  have 
for  some  years  been  offered  to  her  !  She  set  off  for 
Canada  yesterday,  going  for  her  husband,  since  he 
could  n't  or  would  n't  come  for  her. 

Ingham  has  just  finished  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
portraits  of  Miss  Sedgwick  that  eye  ever  saw.  Did  you 
see  anything  of  it  before  you  went  ? 

Furness  ['s  book]  is  selling  much,  and  I  hear  nothing 
but  admiration,  save  the  usual  quaver  in  the  song  about 
the  part  on  miracles.  Apropos,  ...  I  think  that 
the  explication  of  the  miracles  must  be  a  moot  and 
not  a  test  point,   and   I    would  not   break  with   the 

1  He  was  named  after  Lord  Orville,  the  hero  of  Miss  Burney's 
"Evelina,"  which  his  mother  had  read  with  delight  shortly 
before  his  birth. 


Letters.  l6l 

"  Christian  Examiner  "  upon  it ;  and  yet  I  think  the 
heterodox  opinions  of  Ripley  should  have  come  into  it 
in  the  shape  of  a  letter,  and  not  of  a  review.  It  is  rather 
absurd  to  say  "  We  "  with  such  confidence,  and  that 
for  opinions  in  conflict  with  the  whole  course  of  the 
"  Examiner  "  and  the  known  opinions  of  almost  all  its 
supporters.  .  .  . 

Yours  forever  and  a  day, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

New  Yokk,  Jan.  2,  1837. 
...  A  WEEK  ago  to-day  I  sat  down  at  my  desk,  spread 
before  me  a  sheet  of  paper,  grasped  my  pen  energetically, 
and  had  almost  committed  myself  for  a  letter  to  you, 
when  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  that  Mrs.  Schuyler 
was  in  Boston,  and  would  have  told  you  just  what  it  was 
my  special  design  to  write ;  that  is,  all  about  the  congrega- 
tion of  the  faithful  in  Chambers  Street.  Well,  I  suppose 
she  has ;  but  I  shall  have  my  say.  The  congregation  has 
certainly  not  improved,  as  you  seem,  in  your  preposter- 
ous modesty,  to  suppose,  but  suffered  by  your  leaving 
it.  The  attendance,  I  should  think,  is  about  the  same. 
.  .  .  But  I  am  afraid  that  the  society  is  gradually  losing 
strength. 

I  have  been  preaching  some  Sunday-evening  sermons 
to  the  merchants.  Have  n't  you  heard  of  them  ?  And 
if  you  have  n't,  do  you  pretend  that  Brookline  is  a  place  ? 
Take  my  word.  Sir,  that  it  is  not  to  be  found  on  the  map 
of  the  world,  —  not  known  either  to  the  ancients  or  the 
modems.    You  are  not  in  existence.  Sir,  take  my  word 

II 


1 62  Letters. 

for  it,  if  you  have  not  heard  of  these  crowded,  listening, 
etc.  assemblies  at  the  Mercer  Street  Church.  Well, 
really,  I  have  seen  a  packed  audience  there,  and  even 
the  galleries  pretty  well  filled.  I  have  thoughts  of  pub- 
lishing the  discourses  (only  three,  more  than  an  hour 
long,  however),  and  if  I  could  only  write  three  more, 
I  would ;  but  my  brain  got  into  a  pretty  bad  condition 
by  the  third  week,  and  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  go 
on  at  present. 

To  the  Same. 

New  York,  March  27,  1837. 

My  Dear  Ware,  —  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
mean  by  not  letting  me  hear  from  you  these  three 
months.  Do  you  not  know  that  you  are  in  my  debt  for 
a  letter  at  least  twenty  lines  long,  which  it  took  me  three 
minutes  to  write  ?  And  three  minutes  and  twenty  lines, 
in  this  Babel,  are  equal  to  one  hour  and  two  sheets  in 
Brookline.  Do  you  not  know  that  everybody  is  saying, 
"  When  have  you  heard  from  Mr.  Ware  ?  "  Do  you  not 
know  that  ugly  and  choking  weeds  will  spring  up  on  the 
desolation  you  have  made  here  if  you  do  not  scatter 
some  flower-seeds  upon  it?  Consider  and  tremble. 
Or,  respect  this  and  repent,  as  the  Chinese  say. 

Well,  Dr.  FoUen  is  to  be  here  for  a  twelvemonth,  and 
we  shall  not  get  you  back  again, —  ohime  ! 

Dr.  FoUen  has  quite  filled  the  church  at  some  evening 
lectures  on  Unitarianism.  Good  !  and  everything  about 
him  is  good,  but  that  he  comes  after  you. 


Letters.  163 


To  the  Same. 

New  York, /w/j/ 10,  1837. 
My  Dear  Ware,  —  I  can  scarcely  moderate  my  ex- 
pressions to  the  tone  of  wisdom  in  telling  you  how  much 
pleasure  I  have  had  in  reading  your  book,  —  how  much 
I  am  delighted  with  you  and  for  you.  There  is  no  per- 
son to  whom  I  would  more  gladly  have  had  the  honor 
fall  of  writing  the  "  Letters  from  Palmyra."  And  it  is  a 
distinction  that  places  your  name  among  the  highest  in 
our  —  good-for-nothing  —  literature,  as  the  Martineau 
considers  it.  By  the  bye,  you  need  n't  think  you  are 
a-going  to  stand  at  the  head  of  everything,  as  she  will 
have  it.  Have  not  I  written  a  book  too,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  names  less  known  of  Channing,  Irving,  Bryant,  etc.  ? 
And,  by  the  bye,  again,  speaking  of  the  Martineau,  she 
is  a  woman  of  one  idea,  —  takes  one  view,  that  is,  and 
knows  nothing  of  qualification,  —  and  hence  is  opinion- 
ated and  confident  to  a  degree  that  I  think  I  never  saw 
equalled.  Julia,  Fausta,  nay,  Zenobia,  for  me,  rather. 
How  beautifully  have  you  shown  them  up  !  And  Grac- 
chus and  Longinus  as  nobly.  What  things  is  literature 
doing  to  gratify  ambition,  —  things  beyond  its  proudest 
hope  !  How  little  thought  Zenobia  that  her  character, 
two  thousand  years  after  she  lived,  would  be  illustrated 
by  the  genius  of  a  clime  that  she  dreamed  not  of ! 

My  love  and  congratulations  to  your  wife ;  my  love 
and  envy  to  you. 

O.  Dewey. 


164  Letters. 

To  the  Same. 

New  York,  May  13,  1838. 

My  Dear  Ware,  —  Brother  Pierpont  has  preached 
finely  for  me  this  morning,  and  is  to  do  so  again  this 
evening ;  and  for  this  I  find  myself  indirectly  indebted  to 
you.  But  you  are  one  of  those  to  whom  I  can't  feel 
much  obligation  —  for  the  love  I  bear  you. 

I  wrote  to  you  three  weeks  ago.  I  hope  Mrs.  Ware 
is  patient  and  sustained.     Of  you  I  expect  it.     But, 

0  heaven  !  what  a  world  of  thought  does  it  take  even  to 
look  on  calamity  ! 

Your  name  is  abroad  in  the  world  as  it  should  be.  I 
rejoice.  Pierpont  is  now  sitting  by  me,  reading  the 
London  and  Westminster  article  on  "Zenobia,  or  the 
Fall  of  Palmyra."  I  am  glad  you  have  altered  the  title. 
We  are  looking  for  the  sequel. 

The  next  letter  describes  some  of  the  difficul- 
ties of  a  journey  from  Berkshire  to  New  York 
forty  years  ago.  The  route  by  Hartford  was 
probably  chosen  instead  of  the  ordinary  one  by 
Hudson,  to  take  advantage  of  the  new  railroad 
between  that  city  and  New  Haven. 

To  his  Wife. 

New  York,  Friday,  Jebniary  5,  1841. 
I  PRAY  you  to  admire  my  style  of  writing  February. 

1  began  to  write  July,  but  the  truth  is,  I  nearly  lost  my 
wits  on  my  journey.  Twelve  or  thirteen  mortal  hours 
in  getting  to  Hartford.^    After  two  or  three  hours,  called 

1  Fifty  miles. 


Letters.   -  165 

up,  just  when  the  sleep  had  become  so  profound  that 
on  being  waked  I  could  not,  for  some  seconds,  settle  it 
on  what  hemisphere,  continent,  country,  or  spot  of  the 
creation  I  was,  nor  why  I  was  there  at  all.  Then 
whisked  away  in  the  dark  to  the  science-lighted  domes 
of  New  Haven,  but  did  n't  see  them  —  for  why  ?  I  was 
asleep  as  I  went  through  to  the  wharf.  From  the  wharf, 
pitched  into  the  steamboat,  not  having  the  points  of 
compass,  nor  the  time  of  day,  nor  the  zenith  and  nadir 
of  my  own  person.  After  two  previous  months  of  quiet, 
the  whirl-about  made  me  feel  very 

"  like  an  ocean  weed  uptorn 
And  loose  along  the  world  of  waters  borne." 

If  not  a  foundered  weed,  a  very  dumfoundered  one  at 
least. 

To  Rev.  William  Ware. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  15,  1841. 
How  glad  I  am  you  wrote  to  me,  my  dear  W.  !  Is  n't 
that  a  queer  beginning?  But  there  are  people  who 
say  that  everything  natural  is  beautiful,  and  I  am  sure 
that  first  line  was  as  natural  as  the  gushing  out  of  a 
fountain ;  for  the  very  sight  of  your  handwriting  was 
as  a  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day.  By  the  bye,  speaking 
of  sunbeams,  they  certainly  do  wonders  in  winter  weather. 
Have  you  ever  seen  such  blue  depths,  or  depths  of  blue, 
in  the  mountains,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  azure  of 
the  sky  had  fallen  and  lodged  in  their  clefts  and  leafless 
trees  ?  Yesterday  I  was  looking  towards  our  barn  roofs 
covered  with  snow,  —  and  you  know  they  are  but  six 
rods  off,  —  and  so  deep  was  the  color  that  I  thought 
for  the  moment  it  was  the  blue  of  the  distant  horizon. 


1 66  Letters. 

Our  friend  Catherine  Sedgwick,  writing  to  me  a  day  or 
two  ago,  speaks  in  raptures  of  it.  She  says  it  is  like  the 
haze  over  Soracte  or  Capri. 

So  you  see  my  paragraph  has  led  me  from  winter  to 
summer.  Summer  is  gone  to  New  York  a  week  since. 
No  doubt  it  will  produce  beautiful  flowers  in  due  time, 
many  of  them  culled  from  far  distant  lands,  but  most  of 
them  native,  I  ween.  Foreign  seeds,  you  know,  can  do 
nothing  without  a  good  soil.  In  truth,  I  am  looking 
with  great  interest  for  Catherine  Sedgwick's  book. 

"  Hard  work  to  write."  Yes,  terribly  hard  it  has  been 
for  me  these  two  years  past;  but  when  I  am  vigor- 
ous, I  like  it.  However,  the  pen  is  ever,  doubtless,  a 
manacle  to  the  thought ;  draws  it  out,  if  you  please, 
but  makes  a  dragging  business  of  it.  By  the  bye,  is 
your  laziness  making  an  apology  for  not  finishing  "  Scenes 
in  Judea"?  Hear  a  compliment  of  my  mother's  for 
your  encouragement.  "I  should  think  the  man  that 
could  write  the  '  Letters  from  Palmyra,'  —  anything  so 
beautiful  and  so  powerful  too "  (her  very  words),  — 
"could  write  anything." 

I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  Mr.  Farrar's  being  better. 
Give  my  love  to  them,  and  tell  him  I  know  of  nothing 
in  the  world  I  could  hear  with  more  pleasure  than  of  his 
improvement.  What  a  beautiful,  gentle,  precious  spirit 
he  is  ! 

Yes,  I  grant  you  all  about  Cambridge  ;  and  if  I  don't 
go  abroad,  perhaps  we  will  come  and  live  with  you  a 
year  or  two.     Something  I  must  do  ;  I  get  no  better. 

I  can't  guess  your  plaguy  charade.  I  never  thought 
of  one  a  minute  before,  and  I  have  ruminated  upon  yours 
an  hour. 


Letters.  167 

Oh  that  you  were  my  colleague,  or  I  yours,  as  you 
please  ! 

With  our  love  to  your  wife  and  children, 
I  am  as  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Dr.   Charming. 

New  Yokk,  Sept.  30, 1841. 

My  Dear  Sir,  —  I  cannot  go  away  for  two  years 
without  taking  leave  of  you.  I  wish  I  could  do  so 
by  going  to  see  you.  But  my  decision  to  go  is  not 
more  than  three  weeks  old,  and  the  intervening  time 
has  been  overwhelmed  with  cares.  Among  other  things, 
I  have  been  occupied  with  printing  a  volume  of  ser- 
mons. I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  foolish  thing  to  confess,  but 
I  imagined  that  I  had  something  to  say  about  "  human 
life  "  (that  is  my  subject),  though  I  warrant  you  will  find 
it  little  enough.  But  then,  you  are  accustomed  to  say 
so  much  better  things  than  the  rest  of  us,  that  you  ought 
to  distrust  your  judgment. 

I  sail  for  Havre  on  the  8th  October  with  my  family. 

I  am  extremely  glad  to  learn  from  Mrs.  G.  that  your 
health  is  so  good,  and  that  you  pass  some  time  every  day 
with  your  pen  in  hand.  The  world,  I  believe,  is  to  want 
for  its  guidance  more  powerful  writing,  during  twenty 
years  to  come,  than  it  has  ever  wanted  before,  or  will 
again,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  do  your  part. 
Perhaps  this  is  speaking  more  oracularly  than  becomes 
my  ignorance ;  but  it  does  appear  to  me  that  the  civil- 
ized world  is  on  the  eve  of  a  change  and  a  progress? 
putting  all  past  data  at  fault,  and  outstripping  all  present 
imagination.     What  questions  are  to  arise  and  to  be 


1 68  Letters. 

hotly  agitated  about  human  rights,  social  position,  lawful 
government,  and  the  laws  that  are  to  press  man  down 
or  to  help  him  up  ?  What  Brownsons  and  Lamennais' 
and  Strauss'  are  to  come  upon  the  stage,  and  to  be  con- 
fronted with  sober  and  earnest  reasoning  ? 

But  I  did  not  think  to  put  my  slender  finger  into  such 
great  matters,  but  only  to  say  adieu  !  If  you  would  write 
me  while  abroad,  you  know  it  would  give  me  great 
pleasure. 

With  my  most  kind  and  affectionate  regards  to  Mrs. 
Channing,  and  my  very  heart's  good  wishes  and  felicita- 
tions to  M.,  I  am  as  ever. 

Very  truly  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  William  Ware. 

Paris,  Dec.  25,  1841.     - 

My  Dear  Fellow,  —  You  see  how  I  begin ;  truth  is, 
I  feel  more  like  writing  a  love-letter  to  you  than  a  letter 
about  affairs,  or  matters,  or  things ;  for  have  you  not 
been  my  fellow  more  than  anybody  else  has  been? 
Have  we  not  lived  and  labored  together,  have  I  not  been 
in  your  house  as  if  it  were  my  own,  and  have  you  not 
come  into  my  study  many  a  time  and  oft,  as  little  dis- 
turbing my  thought,  and  seeming  as  much  to  belong 
there,  as  any  sunbeam  that  glided  into  it?  And 
furthermore,  is  not  this  anniversary  time  not  only  a  fel- 
lowship season  for  all  Christian  souls,  but  especially  a 
reminder  to  those  who  have  walked  to  the  house  of  God 
in  company? 

Still,  however,  it  is  of  affairs  that  I  have  felt  pressed 
to  write  you  ever  since  I  left  home,  —  indeed,  ever 
since  J  received  your  letter  from  Montreal.     I  have  felt 


Letters.  169 

that  I  ought  at  least  to  tell  you  that  I  see  no  prospect  of 
doing  anything  that  you  desire  of  me.  When  I  shall  be 
able  to  address  myself  to  any  considerable  task  again,  I 
know  not.  At  present  I  am  lying  quite  perdu.  I  have 
lost  all  faculty,  but  to  read  French  histories,  memoirs, 
novels,  periodicals,  etc.,  and  to  run  after  this  great  show- 
world  of  Paris,  —  Louvre,  gallery,  opera,  what  not.  I 
am  longing  to  get  behind  these  visible  curtains,  and  to 
know  the  spirit,  character,  manner  of  being,  of  this 
French  people.  At  present  all  is  problem  to  me.  No 
Sunday,  Uterally  no  cessation  of  labor,  no  sanctity  of 
domestic  ties  with  multitudes,  no  honesty  or  truth  (it 
is  commonly  reported),  but  courtesy,  kindness,  it 
seems,  and  a  sort  of  conventional  fidelity,  —  for  instance,- 
no  stealing ;  a  million  of  people  here,  but  without  either 
manufactures  or  commerce  on  a  great  scale  ;  petit  manu- 
facture, petit  trade,  petit  manage,  petit  prudence  unex- 
ampled, and  the  grandest  tableaux  of  royal  magnificence 
in  public  works  and  public  grounds  to  be  seen  in  the 
world;  the  rez-au-chaussee  (ground  floor)  of  Paris,  a 
shop  ;  all  the  stories  above,  to  be  let ;  a  million  of  people, 
and  nobody  at  home,  in  our  American  sense  of  the  word ; 
an  infinite  boutiquerie,  an  infinite  bonbonnerie,  an  in- 
finite stir  and  movement,  and  no  deep  moral  impulse 
that  I  can  see ;  a  strange  melange  of  the  most  shallow 
levity  in  society,  the  most  atrocious  license  in  literature, 
and  the  most  savage  liberaUsm  in  politics,  —  on  the 
whole,  what  sort  of  people  is  it? 

H6  bien  !  —  to  come  down  fi-om  my  high  horse  before 
I  break  my  neck,  —  here  we  are,  at  honest  housekeep- 
ing ;  for  we  hope  to  pay  the  bills.  Hope  to  pay,  did 
I  say?  We  pay  as  we  go ;  that  is  the  only  way  here ; 
no  stores,  no  larder,  no  bins,  no  gamers,  —  the  shops  of 


I/O  Letters. 

Paris  are  all  this  to  every  family.  Our  greatest  good- 
fortune  here  is  in  having  the  Walshes  for  our  next-door 
neighbors ;  and  who  should  I  find  in  Mrs.  W.  but  a 
very  loving  cousin  and  hearty  admirer  of  yours?  She 
wishes  to  write  a  P.  S.  in  my  letter,  and  I  am  so  happy 
to  come  to  you  in  such  good  company,  as  well  as  to 
enhance  the  value  of  my  letter  with  something  better 
than  I  can  write,  that  I  very  gladly  give  the  space  to 
her.  I  am  only  sorry  and  ashamed  that  it  is  so  little. 
And  so,  with  all  our  love  to  you  all, 

I  am  as  ever  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 
Champel,  near  Gzif^vXfJuly  i8,  1842. 

My  Dear  Fellow  and  Friend,  —  At  the  hour  of 
midnight,  with  the  moon  shining  in  at  my  open  window, 
the  sound  of  the  rushing  Arve  in  my  ears,  —  around  me, 
a  fine  table  of  land  a  hundred  feet  above  the  stream 
that  washes  its  base,  and  covered  with  a  hundred  noble 
chestnuts,  and  laid  out  with  beautiful  walks,  —  thus 
"  being  and  situate,"  I  take  in  hand  this  abominable 
steel  pen  to  write  you.  Envy  me  not,  William  Ware  ! 
Let  no  man,  that  is  well,  envy  him  that  is  sick.  If  I 
were  "  lying  and  being  and  situate,"  as  the  deeds  have 
it,  and  as  I  ought  to  have  it,  I  should  think  myself  an 
object  of  envy,  that  is,  supposing  I  thought  at  all.  No ; 
in  this  charmed  land,  and  in  every  land  where  I  go,  I 
bear  a  burden  of  diseased  nerves  which  I  might  well 
exchange  for  the  privilege  of  living  on  the  Isle  of  Shoals, 
could  I  but  have  the  constitution  of  some  of  \\s,pechereux 
(by  contraction,  pesky)  inhabitants. 

.  .  .  There  has  come  a  new  day,  and  I  have  got  a  new 


Letters.  171 

pen.  Last  night  I  was  too  much  awake ;  I  got  up  from 
my  bed  and  wrote  in  my  dressing-gown ;  to-day  I  am 
too  much  asleep.  But  allons,  and  see  what  will  come 
of  it. 

This  morning  we  walked  into  Geneva  to  church,  the 
air  so  clear  that  it  seemed  as  if  we  could  count  every 
tile  on  the  houses.  The  chimneys  are  crowned  with  a 
forest  of  tin  pipes,  twisted  in  every  direction  to  carry  off 
smoke.  At  dusky  eve,  in  a  superstitious  time,  a  man, 
coming  suddenly  upon  the  town,  might  think  that  an 
army  of  goblins  had  just  alighted  upon  its  roofs.  .  .  . 
What  stupendous  things  do  ages  accumulate  upon  every 
spot  where  they  have  passed  !  Every  time  we  go  into 
town  we  pass  by  the  very  place  where  Servetus  was 
burned.  And  Geneva  is  old  enough  to  have  seen  Julius 
Caesar  ! 

.  .  .  Here  's  another  new  day,  William ;  and  I  wish  I 
were  a  new  man.  But  the  heavens  are  bright,  and  the 
air  so  clear  that  I  can  define  every  man's  patch  of  vine- 
yard and  farm  on  the  Jura,  ten  miles  off;  every  fissure 
and  seam  on  Saleve,  two  miles  back  of  us ;  and  through 
a  gap  in  the  Saleve,  I  do  not  doubt,  were  I  to  go 
out  on  the  grounds,  I  could  see  the  top  of  Mont 
Blanc.  And  yet  lay  one  or  two  ounces'  weight  on  a 
man's  brain,  and  a  tackle,  standing  on  the  Jura,  Saleve, 
and  Mont  Blanc  together,  can't  lift  him  up.  You  see,  I 
am  resolved  you  shan't  envy  me.  However,  not  to  be 
too  lugubrious,  I  am  improving ;  that  is,  the  paroxysms 
of  this  trouble  are  less  severe,  though  I  am  far  from 
being  relieved  of  the  burden. 

But  it  is  time  I  turn  to  your  letter,  which  I  received 
here  with  Henry's,  on  the  1 2th  June.  Thank  him,  for  I 
cannot  write  you  both  now.     Much  news  he  gave  me ;  • 


1 72  Letters. 

but  how  much  that  was  distressing,  and  that  concerning 
himself  most  of  all.  What  is  to  become  of  our  churches  ? 
And  what  is  he  to  do  ?  It  reheves  me  very  much  to  hear 
that  Gannett's  case  is  no  worse.  My  love  and  sympathy 
to  him  when  you  see  him.  Is  he  not  one  of  our  noblest 
and  most  disinterested,  as  well  as  ablest  men,  —  nay,  as 
an  extemporaneous  speaker,  unrivalled  among  us  ?  .  .  . 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick, 

Champel,  near  Geneva,  y«/)/  13,  1842. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  The  public  prints  have  doubt- 
less relieved  me  from  what  I  should  consider  a  most 
painful  duty,  —  that  of  announcing  to  you  the  death  of 
your  friend  Sismondi !  He  died  on  the  25  th  of  last 
month.  I  saw  Mme.  Sismondi  yesterday,  and  she  de- 
sired me  to  tell  you  particularly  that  she  must  defer 
writing  to  you  some  little  time ;  that  she  did  not  feel 
that  she  could  write  now,  especially  in  a  way  to  give  you 
any  comfort.  She  thought  it  was  better  that  I  should 
announce  it  to  you,  not  seeming  to  be  aware  that  the 
death  of  her  husband  is  one  of  the  events  that  the  news- 
papers soon  carry  through  the  world.  Indeed,  the  mod- 
esty of  Sismondi  and  his  wife  is  one  of  the  things  in 
them  that  has  most  struck  me.  Mme.  S.  said  yester- 
day, in  speaking  of  the  commencement  of  your  friend- 
ship, that  "  Sismondi  was  so  grateful  to  her  for  finding 
him  out."  And  Sismondi,  when  I  saw  him  on  my  arrival, 
in  expressing  to  me  his  regret  and  concern  that  it  was  so 
long  since  he  had  heard  from  you,  said  he  knew  that  you 
had  many  letters  to  write,  etc. ;  as  if  that  could  be  the 
reason  why  you  did  not  write  to  him  !  Well,  there  is 
more  modesty  in  the  world  than  we  think,  I  verily  believe. 


Letters.  1 73 

.  .  .  Speaking  of  her  husband,  Mme.  S,  said :  "  Of  his 
acquisitions  and  powers,  I  say  nothing ;  but  it  was  such 
a  heart,  —  there  never  was  such  a  heart !  " 

I  ought  to  add,  while  speaking  of  Mme.  S.,  since 
we  owe  it  all  to  you,  that  her  reception  of  us  was  the 
kindest  possible.  She  brought  us  all,  children  and  all,  to 
her  house  immediately  to  pass  an  evening,  and  indeed 
took  all  our  hearts  by  storm,  —  if  that  can  be  said  of  a 
creature  so  gentle  and  modest.  .  .  . 

I  wrote  the  foregoing  this  morning.  At  dinner-time 
your  letter  of  June  1 2  came,  which,  with  several  others, 
has  so  turned  my  head,  that  I  don't  know  whether  it  is 
morning  or  afternoon.  We  are  conscious,  "  at  each  re- 
move," of  dragging  "the  lengthening  chain,"  but  we 
do  not  know  exactly  how  heavy  or  how  strong  it  is,  till 
some  one  lays  a  hand  on  the  other  end.  The  lightest 
pressure  there  !  —  you  know  how  it  is  when  some  one 
steps  on  the  end  of  a  long  string  which  a  boy  draws 
after  him.  God  bless  you  !  —  it  was  in  my  heart  to  say 
no  less,  —  for  thinking  it  is  a  long  time.  .  .  .  We  read 
and  walk  and  talk  and  laugh,  and  sometimes  sigh. 
Switzerland  has  no  remedy  against  that.  Of  myself  I 
have  nothing  to  say  that  is  worth  the  saying.  I  am  im- 
proving somewhat,  but  I  am  suffering  much  and  almost 
continually,  and  as  yet  I  recover  no  energy  for  work. 

To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows. 

Florence,  Italy,  Nov.  24, 1842. 
...  It  is  now  a  fortnight  or  more  since  the  overwhelm- 
ing news  came  to  us  of  the  death  of  Channing.     During 
this  time  my  mind  has  been  passing  through  steps  of 
gradual  approximation  to  the  reality,  but  never  did  it 


174  Letters. 

find,  or  else  voluntarily  interpose,  so  many  barriers  be- 
tween itself  and  reality  as  in  this  most  deplorable  event. 
There  are  losses  which  I  should  more  acutely  feel  than 
the  loss  of  Channing ;  because  friendship  with  him  lacked, 
I  imagine,  in  all  who  enjoyed  it,  those  Uttle  familiarities, 
those  fonder  leanings,  which  leave  us,  as  it  were,  bewil- 
dered and  utterly  prostrate  when  the  beloved  object  is 
gone.  But  there  is  here  a  sense  of  general  and  irrepa- 
rable loss,  such  as  the  people  of  a  realm  might  be  sup- 
posed to  feel  when  its  cherished  head  is  suddenly  taken 
away.  For  I  suppose  that  no  person  sustained  so  many 
and  such  vital  relations  to  the  whole  republic  of  thought, 
to  the  whole  realm  of  moral  feeling  among  us,  as  this,  our 
venerated  teacher  and  friend.  To  call  him  "  that  great 
and  good  man,"  does  not  meet  the  feeling  we  have  about 
him.  Familiar  to  almost  nobody,  he  was  near  to  every- 
body. His  very  personality  seems  to  have  been  half 
lost  in  the  sense  of  general  benefit.  He  was  one  of 
those  great  gifts  of  God,  like  sunlight  or  the  beauty  of 
nature,  which  we  scarcely  know  how  to  Uve  without, 
or  in  the  loss  of  which,  at  least,  life  is  sadly  changed,  and 
the  world  itself  is  mournfully  bereft. 

But  a  letter  affords  no  scope  for  such  a  theme ;  and 
besides,  painful  as  it  is  to  pass  to  common  topics,  they 
claim  their  dues.  Life,  ay,  common  life,  must  go  on  as 
it  ever  did,  and  nothing  shall  tear  that  infinite  web  of 
mystery  in  which  it  walks  enveloped.  Ours,  however, 
in  these  days,  is  rather  a  shaded  life.  Absence  from 
home,  a  strange  land,  a  land,  too,  that  sits  in  mourning 
over  the  great  rehcs  of  the  past,  —  all  this  tends  to  make 
it  so.  More  material  still  is  what  passes  within  the  micro- 
cosm, and  I  am  not  yet  well.  Not  that  I  am  worse,  for 
I  am  continually  better.     But  —  but,  in  short,  not  to 


Letters.  175 

speak  too  gravely,  if  a  man  feels  as  if  one  of  the  snakes 
of  Medusa's  head  were  certainly  in  his  brain,  —  I  have 
seen  a  horrible  picture  of  the  Medusa  to-day  by  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci,  —  he  cannot  be  very  happy,  you  know. 
And  if  those  around  him  be  of  such  as  "  bear  one  an- 
other's burdens,"  then  you  see  how  the  general  conse- 
quence follows. 

But  let  me  not  make  the  picture  too  dark,  for  the  sake 
of  truth  and  gratitude.  Pleasantly  situated  we  are,  in 
this  fair  Florence,  which  grows  fairer  to  my  eye  the  more 
I  see  it.  Our  rooms  look  to  the  south,  and  down  from 
a  balcony  upon  a  garden  full  of  orange-trees,  and  roses 
and  chrysanthemums  in  full  bloom.  .  .  .  Then  we  have 
reading  and  music  in-doors,  and  churches  and  palaces 
and  galleries  out-doors.  And  such  galleries  !  they  grow 
upon  me  daily ;  the  more  ordinary  paintings,  or  those 
that  seemed  such  at  first,  reveal  something  new  on 
every  new  perusal.  It  is  great  reading  with  such  walls 
for  pages.  Still  there  is  a  longing,  almost  a  sick  pining, 
for  home  at  times.  .  .  . 

To  Rev.  William  Ware. 

New  York,  Sept.  26,  1843. 
My  Dear  Frieistd,  —  Why  have  I  not  written  to  you, 
before?  Every  day  for  the  last  three  weeks  I  have 
thought  of  it.  I  have  been  with  you  in  thought,  and 
with  him,  your  dear  brother,  —  my  dear  friend  !  ^  If  he 
could  have  known  me  and  conversed  with  me,  I  could 
not  have  refrained  from  making  the  journey  to  see  him. 
How  easy  his  converse  ever  was,  how  natural,  how  sen- 

1  Rev.  Henry  Ware,  D.D. 


I  ^6  Letters. 

sible  and  humorous  by  turns,  but  especially  so  unforced 
that  for  me  it  alwa)rs  had  a  charm  by  itself.  The  words 
seemed  to  drop  from  our  lips  almost  without  our  will, 
and  yet  with  nobody  could  I  get  through  so  much  con- 
versation in  so  little  time.  Neither  of  us  seemed  to  want 
much  explanation  from  the  other;  I  think  we  under- 
stood one  another  well. 

Where  is  he  now  ?  With  whom  talks  he  now?  Per- 
haps with  Channing  and  Greenwood  !  Oh  !  are  not  the 
best  of  us  gone ;  and  all  in  one  year  !  Was  there  ever 
such  a  year? 

My  dear  William  Ware,  we  must  hold  on  to  the  ties 
of  life  as  we  may,  and  especially  to  such  as  unite  you 
and  me.  But  are  you  not  getting  a  strange  feeling  of 
nonchalance  about  everything,  —  life,  death,  and  the 
time  of  death,  what  matters  it  ?  I  rather  think  it  is  nat- 
ural for  the  love  of  life  to  grow  stronger  as  we  advance 
in  life ;  and  yet  it  is  so  terribly  shaken  by  the  experience 
of  life,  and  one  is  so  burdened  at  times  by  the  all-sur- 
rounding and  overwhelming  mystery  and  darkness,  that 
one  is  willing  to  escape  any  way  and  on  any  terms. 

I  have  your  few  kind  words.  I  hope  I  shall  have 
such  oftener  than  once  or  twice  a  year.  I  will  try  to  take 
care  of  myself,  and  to  live.  .  .  . 

To  the  Same. 

New  York,  Oct.  17,  1844. 
My  Dear  Ware,  —  I  ought  not  —  I  must  not  —  I 
cannot  —  J  dare  not,  —  at  least  not  at  present.  When 
the  present  stress  is  over,  I  may  feel  better.  The  fact  is, 
at  present  I  am  scarcely  fit  to  take  care  of  my  parish, 
and  it  would  be  madness  to  take  upon  myself  any  new 


Letters.  177 

burden.  See  there  !  a  fine  fellow  I  should  be  to  have 
charge  of  the  "  Examiner,"  who  have  written  present 
three  times  in  as  many  lines  !  However,  I  am  writing 
now  in  terrible  haste,  on  the  spur  of  an  instant  determi- 
nation ;  for  I  must  and  will  put  this  thing  off  from  my 
mind.  I  have  kept  it  there  for  a  fortnight.  I  have 
wished  to  do  this.  First,  because  you  wished  it;  sec- 
ondly, because  others  wish  it ;  and,  thirdly,  I  had  a  lean- 
ing to  it.  In  case  of  a  colleagueship,  and  that  must 
come,  I  might  be  glad  of  it.  Bellows,  too,  would  help 
me,  —  would  take  charge  with  me,  —  and  that  may  be, 
if  the  thing  is  open  by  and  by,  but  not  now ;  I  must 
not  think  of  it  any  more  now.  I  have  not  slept  a  wink 
all  night  for  thinking  of  this  and  other  things. 

All  this,  my  dear  fellow,  is  somewhat  confidential,  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  considered  a  good-for-nothing.  Per- 
haps I  shall  rally.  I  was  doing  very  well  when  I  left 
the  Continent.  England  overwhelmed  me  with  engage- 
ments, and  so  it  is  here.  With  our  love  to  your  love 
and  the  children. 

Yours  as  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

New  York,  Jan.  6, 1845. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  shall  make  no  due  return  for 
your  good  long  letter ;  I  have  none  of  the  Lamb-ent 
light  which  plays  around  your  pen  wherewith  to  illumi- 
nate my  page,  and  indeed  am  in  these  days,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  something  more  dark  than  usual.  However,  if 
wishes  be  such  good  things  as  you  ingeniously  represent, 


1 78  Letters. 

I  judge  that  attempts  are  worth  something.  Ergo,  Q.  S., 
which  means  quod  sequitur ;  it  can  hardly  be  a  non 
sequitur,  if  nothing  follows. 

There  !  I  have  just  touched  all  the  points  of  your 
letter,  I  think.  I  have  sent  my  light  comment- stone 
skittering  over  your  full  smooth  lake. 

Well,  I  see  you  on  the  bank  of  your  literal  lake,  your 
beautiful  Menotomy,  —  beautiful  as  Windermere,  only 
not  so  big ;  and  I  see  the  spring  coming  to  cover  that 
bank  with  verdure,  and  I  long  for  both ;  that  is,  for  spring 
and  you.  I  always  long  for  you,  and  for  spring,  I  think 
I  long  for  it  more  than  I  ever  did  It  must  be  that  I 
am  growing  old.  Shall  we  ever  meet,  my  friend,  if  not 
by  Menotomy,  by  those  fountains  where  Christ  leads  his 
flock  in  the  immortal  clime,  and  rejoin  our  beloved 
Henry,  and  Greenwood,  and  Channing?  I  am  not  sad, 
but  my  thoughts  this  winter  are  far  more  of  death  than 
of  life.  Ought  one  to  part  with  his  friends  so  ?  No ; 
happy  New  Year  to  you.  Hail  the  expected  years,  and 
the  years  of  eternity  !  God  bless  you. 
As  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

Sheffield,  Aug.  18, 1845. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  ...  The  whole  previous  page 
is  to  no  purpose  but  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  thought 
about  you  incessantly ;  for  you  know  that  I  have  a  sym- 
pathy not  only  with  your  heart,  but  with  your  head,  if 
that  be  again,  as  I  suppose  it  is,  the  seat  of  your  trouble. 
Heads  certainly  can  bear  a  great  deal.     Mine  has ;  and 


Letters,  179 

I  am  now  reading  the  work,  in  six  volumes,  of  a  man  who 
was  out  of  his  head  for  years  from  hard  study ;  and  yet 
these  volumes  are  full  of  thought,  full  of  minute  and 
endless  explications  on  the  greatest  of  subjects.  It  is 
the  work  of  Auguste  Comte  on  the  "  Philosophic  Posi- 
tive," essentially  an  attempt  at  a  philosophic  apprecia- 
tion of  the  whole  course  of  human  thought  and  history. 
With  an  awfully  involved  style,  with  a  great  over-valua- 
tion of  his  own  labor,  he  seems  to  me  to  have  done  a 
great  deal.  I  have  met  with  nothing  on  the  philosophy 
of  history  to  compare  with  it,  as  philosophy,  though  I 
have  read  Vico  and  Herder. 

I  shall  not  be  easy  till  I  know  something  about  your 
health  and  plans.     My  vacation  is  nearly  ended.     I  go 
down  to  New  York  the  ist  of  September.  .  .  . 
As  ever  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry    W.  Bellows. 

Sheffield,  Aug.  25,  1845. 

Dear  Bellows,  —  I  thought  to  answer  you  in  your 
own  vein,  but  I  am  made  very  serious  just  now  by 
reading  the  first  five  chapters  of  Matthew.  How  many 
things  to  think  of!  Does  no  doubt  arise  concerning 
those  introductory  chapters?  And  then  what  heart- 
penetrating,  what  -tremendous  teaching  is  that  of  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount ! 

In  fact,  though  jests  have  flown  pretty  freely  about 
the  house,  and  hearty  laughter  is  likely  to  be  where 
the  Deweys  muster  in  much  strength,  yet  I  have  had  a 
pretty  serious  vacation.     I  set  for  my  stent,  to  read  the 


i8o  Letters. 

New  Testament,  or  the  Gospels  at  least,  in  Greek,  and 
to  master  the  great  work  of  Auguste  Comte,  and  to 
write  one  or  two  sermons.  With  the  philosopher  I  have 
spent  the  most  time.  Morning  after  morning,  with  none 
to  annoy  or  make  me  afraid,  I  have  gone  out  on  the 
green  grass  under  the  trees,  and,  seated  in  the  bosom  of 
the  world,  I  have  striven  with  the  great  problem  of  the 
world.  The  account  looks  fanciful,  perhaps,  but  the 
matter  is  not  so ;  for  amidst  this  solitude  and  silence, 
and  this  infinitude  which  nature  opens  to  me  as  the  city 
never  does,  I  find  the  most  serious  and  terrible  business 
of  my  existence.  I  do  not  mean  terrible  in  a  bad  sense ; 
I  have  courage  and  faith,  but  I  can  gain  no  approach 
towards  philosophical  apathy. 

We  are  well,  and  expect  to-  go  down  on  Wednesday 
next,  and  we  too  begin  to  feel  a  longing  for  New  York 
and  you.    With  our  love  to  E. 

As  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mrs.  Ephraim  Peabody. 

New  York,  Oct.  24,  1845. 

My  Dear  Mrs.  Peabody,  —  Do  not  regret  that  you 
have  let  us  have  your  husband  a  few  days.  He  has  done 
us  much  good ;  unless  I  am  to  put  in  the  opposite  scale 
his  having  stolen  away  the  hearts  of  my  children. 

If  you  had  heard  him  last  evening,  I  think  you  would 
have  been  satisfied,  though  wives  are  hard  to  please.  It 
was  a  majestical  and  touching  ministration;  I  have 
never  felt  anything  from  the  pulpit  to  be  more  so.  The 
hearty,  honest,  terrible  tears  it  wrung  from  me  were 


Letters.  i8i 

such  as  I  have  given  to  no  sermon  this  many  a  day,  — 
I  think,  never. 

I  hope  you  are  better  \  and  with  all  other  good  wishes, 
I  am,  Yours  very  truly, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.   William   Ware. 

New  York,  Jan.  27,  1846. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  This  week  is  a  little  breathing- 
time,  the  first  I  have  allowed  myself  for  five  months ; 
and  my  old  pile  of  sermons  shows  such  a  sprinkling  of 
new  ones  as  it  has  not  in  any  equal  time  these  ten  years. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  I  might  get  my  head  strong 
and  clear  again,  and  good  as  anybody's ;  but  this  last 
week  has  brought  me  to  a  stand,  and  made  me  think  of 
that  monitory  prediction  of  yours  when  I  came  home,  two 
years  ago.  .  .  .  To  be  sure,  I  do  not  usually  think  of  any 
retreat  that  wiU  separate  me  entirely  from  New  York.  I 
have  expected  to  live  and  die  in  connection  with  this 
church ;  but  I  have  had  a  feeling  this  winter  as  if  a  new 
voice  might  be  better  for  them ;  and  any  way  it  may 
be  better  for  them  to  have  one  man  than  two  ;  that  is, 
myself  and  a  colleague.  Somewhere,  indeed,  I  expect  to 
preach  as  long  as  I  can  do  anything,  for  I  suppose  this 
is  my  vocation,  if  I  have  any,  poorly  as  it  is  discharged. 
Poorly ;  alas  !  how  does  this  eternal  ideal  fly  before  us, 
and  leave  us  ever  restless  and  unsatisfied  i  How  much 
Henry  felt  it !  more,  indeed,  than  I  had  thought,  well  as 
I  knew  his  humility.  And  indeed  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  he  did  not  sufficiently  distinguish  between  out- 
ward and  inward  defect.  I  can  very  well  understand 
how,  in  any  right  mind,  the  latter  should  give  deep  pain. 
But  for  Henry  Ware  to  charge  himself  with  indolence 


1 82  Letters. 

and  idleness,  —  with  not  doing  enough  !  Why,  he  was 
ever  doing  more  than  his  health  would  bear.  The  Me- 
moir, I  hardly  need  say,  is  read  here  with  deep  interest. 
Tell  your  brother,  with  my  regards  and  thanks  to  liim, 
that  it  appears  to  me  a  perfect  biography  in  this,  —  that 
it  placed  me  in  the  very  presence  of  my  friend,  and 
made  me  feel,  all  the  while  I  was  reading  it,  as  if  he  were 
with  me.  I  laid  it  down,  however,  I  may  confess  to  you, 
with  one  sad  feeling  beyond  that  of  the  general  loss ; 
and  that  was  that  nowhere  throughout  was  there  one 
recognition  of  the  friendship  that  bound  me  and  Henry 
Ware  together.  It  is  nobody's  fault,  unless  it  be  mine. 
And  I  am  led  sometimes  to  query  whether  there  be  not 
something  strange  about  me  in  my  friendly  relations ; 
some  apparent  repulsion,  or  some  want  of  visible  kind- 
liness. One  thing  I  do  know ;  that  we  are  all  crushed 
down  under  this  great  wheel  of  modern  hfe  and  labor, 
and  friendships  seem  to  have  but  poor  chance  of  culture 
and  expression. 

To  pass  on ;  with  regard  to  our  New  York  churches, 
we  have,  more  visible  activity  this  winter  than  usual.  I 
hold  a  weekly  evening  meeting  in  the  library  of  our 
church ;  Mr.  Bellows  also.  Our  Sunday  school  is  re- 
organized, being  divided  into  two,  and  the  numbers  are 
more  than  doubled ;  and  we  have  formed  a  Unitarian 
Association  for  the  State  of  New  York,  with  headquar- 
ters in  the  hall  over  the  entrance  to  the  Church  of  the 
Divine  Unity. 

To  the  Same. 

New  York,  May  4,  1846. 
My  Dear  —  not  "rugged  and  dangerous,"  but  gentle 
and  good-natured,  —  I  foresee  a  biography  (far  be  the 


Letters.  183 

day  when  it  shall  be  required  !)  in  which  it  is  not  difficult 
to  anticipate  a  passage  running  somewhat  as  follows  :  — 

"  He  seemed  to  possess  every  attribute  of  genius  but 
self-reliance.  From  this  cause,  doubtless,  he  failed  to 
some  extent  of  what  he  might  otherwise  have  accom- 
plished. He  himself  thought  that  the  choice  of  his  pro- 
fession was  the  fatal  mistake  of  his  life ;  and  perhaps 
he  might  have  found  a  more  congenial  sphere.  But  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  his  self- distrust  might  not  have 
prevented  him  from  putting  forth  his  full  strength,  or 
rather,  perhaps,  from  giving  full  play  to  his  mind  in  any 
walk  of  literature  or  art.  Even  in  those  beautiful  Orien- 
tal and  Roman  fictions  there  is  a  certain  staidness,  a 
measured  step,  from  which  he  never  departs.  Even  in 
some  of  those  chapters  of  *  Zenobia,'  which  a  critic  of  the 
day  pronounced  to  be  'absolute  inspiration,'  the  light 
glows  through  the  smooth  and  polished  sentences  as 
throagh  the  crevices  of  plated  armor.  In  fact,  it  was 
only  in  his  familiar  letters  that  his  genius  seemed  to 
break  out  into  perfect  freedom.  In  these  he  approached 
the  letters  of  Charles  Lamb  nearer  than  any  writer  of 
his  day. 

"  There  is  a  curious  and  really  amusing  specimen  of 
his  modesty  in  a  letter  of  his  to  a  friend  of  the  name 
of  Dewey,  —  if  we  read  the  name  rightly  in  his  some- 
what illegible  manuscripts.  This  Dewey,  it  seems,  had 
published  some  sermons,  or  volumes  of  sermons,  we  know 
not  which,  —  for  they  are  long  since  swept  down  beneath 
the  flood  of  time  to  that  oblivion  to  which  many  cart- 
loads of  such  things  are  worthily  destined,  —  and  the 
author  of  *  Zenobia '  really  addresses  this  forgotten 
preacher  as  his  superior  in  strength,  in  power,  and,  it 
would  seem,  even  in  the  felicities  of  style.    We  hope 


1 84  Letters. 

the  good  man  had  too  much  sense,  or  humility  at  least, 
to  have  his  head  turned  by  such  inexplicable  fatuity." 

Now  I  will  thank  you  to  preserve  this  letter  among 
your  papers,  that  the  biographer  may  light  upon  some 
evidence  of  "  the  good  man's  "  sanity. 

...  I  do  not  think  I  shall  go  to  the  great  May  meet- 
ings in  Boston.  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  made  for  them. 
It  wants  a  man,  at  any  rate,  with  all  his  faculties  about 
him,  ready  and  apt  and  in  full  vigor ;  and  mine  are  not, 
—  certainly  not  now-a-days,  if  they  ever  are.  The  con- 
dition of  my  brain  at  present  makes  quiet  necessary  to 
me.     Every  exertion  is  now  something  too  much. 

I  have  addressed  the  trustees  of  the  church  to-day,  to 
express  my  conviction  to  them  that,  by  next  autumn, 
some  material  change  must  be  made.  By  that  time  all 
my  sermons  will  be  preached  to  death,  and  I  shall  have 
no  power  to  make  new  ones.  The  church  must  deter- 
mine whether  it  will  relinquish  my  services  entirely,  or 
have  them  one  quarter  or  one  third  of  the  time. 

The  thought  of  having  soon  to  be  done  with  time 
and  life  has  almost  oppressed  me  for  the  year  past,  so 
constantly  has  it  been  with  me.  And  indeed  I  have 
felt  that  there  may  be  too  much  of  this  for  the  vigor, 
not  to  say  the  needful  buoyancy,  of  life.  Earth  is  our 
school,  our  sphere ;  and  I  more  than  doubt  whether  the 
anchorite's  dreaming  of  heaven,  or  the  spirit  of  the 
"  Saints'  Rest,"  is  the  true  spiritual  condition.  I  have 
long  wanted  to  review  Baxter's  work,  in  this  and  other 
views. 

With  my  love  to  your  wife  and  children,  —  I  mean,  by 
your  leave,  your  wife  especially,  —  I  am,  as  ever, 
Yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.        -  185 

To  the  Same. 

New  Yovlk,  July  10,  1846. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  If  from  this  awful  heat  (90°  in 
my  study)  where  I  am  busy,  I  were  not  going  to  an 
equally  awful  country  heat  where  I  shall  be  lazy,  I  would 
put  off  \^Titing  a  few  days.  .  .  .  My  principal  —  no,  I 
won't  say  that  —  my  most  painful  business  is  hunting  up 
sermons  fit  to  be  preached.  The  game  grows  scarce, 
and  my  greatest  vexation  is  that  every  now  and  then, 
when  I  think  I  have  got  a  fox  or  a  beaver,  it  turns  out 
to  be  a  woodchuck  or  a  muskrat. 

From  the  tenor  of  some  of  our  late  letters,  I  believe 
we  should  be  thought  to  belong  to  the  "  Mutual  Admira- 
tion Society,"  I  deny  that  of  us  both,  though  appear- 
ances are  rather  against  us.  I  will  have  done,  at  any 
rate,  for  your  last  has  quite  knocked  me  down,  or  rather 
so  outrageously  set  me  up,  as  I  was  never  before. 

With  regard  to  my  plans,  I  myself  prefer  four  months 
in  the  pulpit  here,  and  that  was  what  I  proposed ;  but 
something  had  been  said  by  me  about  three  months  in 
a  different  connection,  and  the  congregation,  I  am  told, 
thought  that  in  naming  three  they  were  conforming  pre- 
cisely to  my  wishes.  But  that  will  be  arranged  satisfac- 
torily. I  am  to  go  out  of  town,  of  course ;  I  cannot 
live  here  upon  a  quarter  or  third  of  a  salary.  I  have 
something  of  my  own,  this  house  and  a  little  more,  — 
twelve  thousand  dollars,  perhaps,  in  all ;  so  far  I  have 
carried  out  the  plan  you  speak  of.  I  have  had  reasons 
more  than  most  others  for  attending  to  the  means,  for 
I  am  the  only  surviving  male  member  of  my  family.  I 
have  had  the  satisfaction  of  doing  something  for  them 
all  along,  and  shall  have  that  of  leaving  to  my  mother 


1 86  Letters. 

and  sisters  a  house  to  cover  them,  and  forty  acres  of 
land.  .  .  . 

Yours  as  ever,  only  more  than  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows. 

Washington,  Nov.  2,  1846. 
My  Dear  Bellows, — Suppose  I  take  my  pen  and 
write  just  what  comes  into  my  head.  Did  you  expect 
things  coming  from  anywhere  else,  I  would  like  to  know  ? 
It 's  a  pretty  serious  condition,  however.  Conceive  —  I 
am  to  write  in  total  forgetfulness  that  I  am  a  Dr.,  and 
without  any  fear  before  my  eyes  of  having  it  printed  in  a 
biography.  Bah  !  if  anybody  ever  did  write  letters  that 
never  could  be  printed  anywhere,  I  am  that  person. 
What  the  reason  is  precisely,  I  do  not  know,  but  I 
always  fancied  it  was  because  I  had  no  time  and  no 
superfluous  energies  to  throw  away  upon  letters,  any 
more  than  upon  conundrums.  And  I  have  fancied,  too, 
that  when  the  blessed  leisure  days  should  come  in  the 
quiet  country,  —  not  only  the  otium  cum  dignitate,  but 
the  silence  and  the  meditation,  —  that  then  I  should 
pour  myself  out  in  letters.  But  the  time  has  n't  come 
yet.  Consider  that  my  leisure  as  yet  extends  to  only 
about  (I  've  pulled  out  my  watch  to  see)  three  hours 
and  twenty  minutes.  It  is  now  Monday,  11:20  a.m., 
and  we  did  not  arrive  here  till  Saturday  evening. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  ten  thousand  things 
will  let  you.  You  will  easily  see  that  there  is  no  good 
reason  why  I  have  written  this  letter  but  this,  —  that 
I  have  left  the  greater  part  of  my  heart  in  New  York, 
and  naturally  turn  back  to  find  it.    Remind  your  three 


Letters.  187 

houses  of  the  stock  they  have  in  it,  bad  as  it  is  ;  and,  to 
be  most  sadly  serious,  remember  my  very  affectionate 

regards  to  Mrs.  Kirkland,  and  give  my  love  to  the s 

and s,  and  believe  me. 

Ever  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

Washington,  Dec.  10,  1846. 
.  .  .  For  am  I  not  through  the  one  third  of  the  second 
of  the  five  months,  and  am  I  not  very  glad  of  it  ?  And  yet 
I  am  very  glad  I  came  away.  You  have  no  idea  how 
I  am  reUeved,  and  I  shall  not  go  back  empty-handed. 
But  the  relief  I  feel  admonishes  me  never  to  return  to 
the  full  charge.     How  little  do  people  know  or  conceive 

what  it  is  !     One  case,  like  what  I  fear  Mrs. 's  is,  of 

slow  decline,  —  one  such  case  weighs  upon  the  mind  and 
heart  for  months.  If  you  could  go  and  make  the  call, 
without  any  sad  anticipation  or  afterthought;  but  you 
cannot.  And  then,  when  it  is  not  one  case  that  draws 
upon  your  sympathies,  but  several,  and  you  are  made 
the  confidant  of  many  sorrows  besides,  and  you  are 
anxious  for  many  minds ;  and  when,  moreover,  your 
studies  are  not  of  the  habitudes  of  bees,  and  the  length 
of  butterflies'  wings,  but  wasting  thoughts  of  human  souls 
in  sorrow  and  peril,  and  your  Sundays  rack  your  sinews 
with  pain,  —  I  declare  I  wonder  that  men  live  through  it 
at  all. 

To  the  Same. 

Washington,  Feb.  7, 1847. 
My  Dear  Bellows,  —  I  consider,  it  a  mercy  to  you 
to  put  some  interval  between  my  letters ;  indeed,  I  do 


1 88  Letters. 

not  know  how  you  write  any,  ever ;  besides,  I  feel  all  the 
while  as  if  some  of  your  burdens  were  to  be  laid  at  the 
door  of  my  delinquencies.  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  rejoice  in  you 
always.  I  never  hear  of  you  but  to  hear  good  of  you ; 
and  it  is  often  that  I  hear.  .  .  . 

As  to  the  sermons  I  have  been  writing  here,  I  con- 
sider your  suggestion  that  you  might  read  since  you  will 
not  hear  them  such  an  enormous  compliment,  such  a 
reckless  piece  of  goodness,  that  all  your  duties  in  regard 
to  them  are  fully  discharged  in  the  bare  proposition. 
And  I  am  not  going  to  have  you  canonized  and  sent 
down  to  all  ages  as  the  most  suffering  saint  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  for  having  read  twelve  of  Dewey's  manu- 
script sermons.  I  have  preached  one  of  them  this 
evening,  and  it  made  so  much  impression  (upon  me) 
that  I  was  quite  taken  by  surprise.  The  title  is  "  Nature." 
.  .  .  Last  week  I  wrote  the  most  considerable  lucubra- 
tion of  the  winter,  on  the  darkest  problem  in  the  phi- 
losophy of  life  and  histor}'^,  "  the  ministry  of  error  and 
evil  in  the  world,"  to  wit.  Polytheism,  Despotism,  War, 
and  Slavery.  .  .  .  Always  my  poor  mind  and  heart  are 
struggling  with  one  subject,  and  that  is  the  great  world- 
question. 

You  speak  of  my  opportimities  here.  Perhaps  I  have 
not  improved  them  very  well.  I  am  not  very  enterpris- 
ing in  the  social  relations,  and  half  of  the  winter  I  have 
not  cared  for  Washington,  nor  anything  else  but  what 
was  passing  in  my  own  mind.  ...  I  have  met  some 
admirable  persons  here,  of  those  I  did  not  know  before. 
Crittenden  and  Corwin  and  Judge  McLean  have  inter- 
ested me  most ;  men  they  seem  to  me  of  as  fine  and 
beautiful  natures  as  one  can  well  meet.  I  have  had 
two  interviews  with  Calhoun  that  interested  me  much ; 


Letters.  1 89 

and  the  other  evening  I  met  SouM,  the  Louisiana  sena- 
tor, and  had  a  long  conversation  with  him,  chiefly  about 
slavery,  —  a  very  remarkable  person.  There  is  no  face 
in  the  Senate,  besides  Webster's,  so  lashed  up  with  the 
strong  lines  of  intellect;  and  his  smile  shines  out  as 
brightly  and  beautifully  from  the  dark  cloud  of  his 
features. 

To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

New  York,  May  23,  1847. 
Dear  Molly,  —  I  thought  M.  E.  D.  made  you  m-a-d ; 
but  you  shall  have  it  hereafter,  if  it  makes  you  "  demni- 
tion  "  mad ;  no  appreciation  of  my  delicacy  in  leaving 
out  the  E,  —  which  stands  for  error,  egotism,  eggnog, 
epsom-salts,  and  every  erroneous  entity  extant.  Yes, 
the  E,  —  have  it,  with  all  its  compounds.  The  fact  is, 
I  suppose,  that  when  people  retire  up  into  the  countiy, 
they  grow  monstrous  avaricious,  and  exact  everything 
that  belongs  to  them ;  lay  up  their  best  clothes  and  go 
slip-shod.  I  'm  preparing  for  that  condition,  mentally 
and  bodily.  You  see  I  begin  to  slip  already  in  language. 
Your  mother  is  trying  to  persuade  me  to  buy  a  dressing- 
gown.  A  dressing-gown  !  when  I  don't  expect  to  dress 
at  all-.  As  if  a  beggar  who  never  expects  to  dine  were 
to  buy  a  service  of  plate,  or  a  starving  man  should  have 
his  picture  taken,  and  give  a  hundred  dollars  for  famine 
in  effigy.  I  have  ordered  a  suit  of  summer  clothes,  to 
be  sure,  because  I  feel  very  thin,  and  expect  to  feel  very 
light  some  five  weeks  hence.  I  shall  get  some  cigars  by 
the  same  token,  because  all  things  with  me  are  vanishing 
into  smoke.  And  if  thin  clothes  can't  live,  can't  be  dis- 
tended, filled  out,  and  look  respectable,  upon  smoke,  let 
'em  die,  and  be  crushed  before  the  moth. 


IQO  Letters. 

Alonday  morning.  These  tantrums,  dear  Molly,  were 
—  what  ?  cut  up  ?  —  last  night  after  preaching,  and  mor- 
tal tired  I  was  too,  I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  every  sermon  I  take  now,  every  poor, 
little,  innocent  sermon  comes  bouncing  out  in  the  pulpit 
like  a  Brobdingnag. 

To  Rev.  William  Ware. 

Sheffield,  Aug.  22,  1847. 
Dear  FRiE>rD,  —  I   don't   like  Commencements.     I 
hate  travelling.     And  just  now  I  hate  my  pen  so  much 
that  I  can  scarce  muster  patience  to  tell  you  so. 

I  have  been  reading  Prescott's  "  Peru."  What  a  fine 
accomplishment  there  is  about  it !  And  yet  there  is 
something  wanting  to  me  in  the  moral  nerve.  History 
should  teach  men  how  to  estimate  characters.  It  should 
be  a  teacher  of  morals.  And  I  think  it  should  make  us 
shudder  at  the  names  of  Cortez  and  Pizarro.  But  Pres- 
cott's does  not.  He  seems  to  have  a  kind  of  sympathy 
with  these  inhuman  and  perfidious  adventurers,  as  if  they 
were  his  heroes.  It  is  too  bad  to  talk  of  them  as  the 
soldiers  of  Christ.  If  it  were  said  of  the  Devil,  they 
would  have  better  fitted  the  character. 

Monday  morning.  The  shadows  of  the  lilac  fall  upon 
my  page,  checkered  with  the  .slant  rays  of  the  morning 
light ;  there  is  a  slope  of  green  grass  under  the  window ; 
there  is  quiet  all  around ;  I  wish  you  were  here.  My 
love  to  your  wife  and  children. 

Yours  as  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  191 

To  the  Same. 

Sheffield,  Sept.  30,  1847. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  should  have  answered  your 
letter  of  the  6th  before,  but  sermons  have  been  in  hand 
for  the  first  and  second  Sundays  of  October  in  New  York, 
and  my  hand  is  commonly  too  weary,  when  engaged  in 
such  tasks,  to  turn  to  anything  else. 

I  sent  the  late  edition  of  my  —  things  (works,  they 
call  'em)  to  the  Harvard  College  Library,  and  if  you 
will  take  the  second  volume,  you  will  see,  in  a  sermon 
"  On  the  Slavery  Question,"  how  entirely  I  agree  with  you 
that  this  is  the  great  trial  question  of  the  country.  And 
I  think  it  will  press  upon  the  country  this  coming  winter 
as  it  never  has  before.  It  certainly  will  if  the  Cali- 
fomias  are  ceded  to  us,  and  the  Wilmot  Proviso  is 
brought  before  Congress,  not  for  hypothetical,  but  for 
practical,  actual  decision.  If  it  should  be,  I  entertain 
the  most  painful  apprehensions  for  the  result.  We  have 
lost  a  host  by  the  death  of  Silas  Wright.  A  sagacious 
politician  said  to  a  friend  of  mine  the  other  day,  "  It  is  a 
special  providence,  for  it  has  saved  us  from  a  dissolution 
of  the  Union."  His  opinion  was  that  Silas  Wright,  if  he 
had  lived,  would  have  been  President ;  and  you  know 
that  he  would  have  taken  his  stand  on  the  Proviso. 

The  judgment  of  the  individual  to  whom  \  have  just 
referred  presents  the  true  issue.  It  is  Policy  against 
Right.  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  man  in  New  England 
who  does  not  wish  for  the  extinction  of  Slavery.  I  sup- 
pose there  is  hardly  a  man  at  the  North  who  does  not 
feel  that  the  system  is  wrong,  that  it  ought  to  be  abol- 
ished, and  must  eventually  be  abolished ;  and  that  the 
only  question  about  its  abolition  is  a  question  of  time. 


192  Letters. 

But  here  is  the  peril,  —  that  a  good  many  persons  in 
Congress  and  out  of  Congress  will  falter  in  their  con- 
viction before  the  determined  stand  of  the  South, — 
the  determination,  that  is  to  say,  to  break  off  from  the 
Union  rather  than  submit  to  the  Wilmot  Proviso.  And 
I  do  most  seriously  fear,  for  my  part,  that  they  would 
hold  to  that  determination.  But  I  am  prepared,  for  my- 
self, to  say  that,  rather  than  yield  the  national  sanction 
to  this  huge  and  monstrous  wrong,  I  would  take  the  risk 
of  any  consequences  whatever.  I  reason  for  the  nation 
as  I  would  for  myself.  I  say,  rather  than  tell  a  lie,  I 
would  die.  I  cannot  deliberately  do  wTong,  and  I  can- 
not consent  that  my  people  shall.  I  would  rather  con- 
sent to  the  dismemberment  of  my  right  hand  than  to 
lay  it  in  solemn  mockery  on  the  altar  of  injustice.  As  I 
have  said  in  the  sermon  to  which  I  have  referred  you, 
suppose  that  we  were  called  upon  to  legalize  polygamy 
or  no  marriage  in  California  ;  would  we  do  it  ?  Certainly 
we  would  not,  though  all  the  Southern  States  should 
threaten  to  break  off  from  us  for  our  refusal,  and  should 
actually  do  it.  I  asked  a  similar  question  with  regard 
to  legalizing  theft,  in  my  sermon  on  the  Annexation  of 
Texas ;  and  one  of  the  stanchest  opposers  of  the  Wil- 
mot Proviso  once  told  me  that  that  was  the  hardest 
instance  he  had  ever  been  called  upon  to  answer. 

But  though  he  felt  the  force  of  the  moral  parallel,  still 
policy  was  carrying  it  with  him  over  the  right ;  or  rather 
I  should  say,  perhaps,  that  he  resolved  the  right  of  the 
matter  into  temporary  expediency.  He  did  not  mean 
to  cross  the  line  of  conscience,  but  he  thought  it  should 
sway  to  this  great  emergency. 

This,  I  say,  is  the  great  peril ;  and  he  who  would  raise 
up  this  nation  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument,  must 


Letters.  193 

lift  it  to  the  determination  to  do  no  wrong,  —  must  lift  it 
high  enough,  in  fact,  to  see  that  the  right  is  the  only- 
true  policy. 

Who  shall  do  it?  You  exhort  me  to  write.  I  shall 
do  so  as  I  am  able,  and  see  occasion,  as  I  have  done. 
I  shall  scarcely  refrain,  I  suppose,  from  writing  this  win- 
ter. But  alas  !  I  am  broken  in  health,  and  am  totally- 
unable  fairly  and  fully  to  grapple  with  any  great  subject. 
I  have  more  than  I  can  well,  or,  I  fear,  safely  do  to  meet 
the  ordinary  calls  of  my  pulpit. 

In  fact  I  am  a  good  deal  discouraged  about  my  ability 
to  do  good  in  any  way,  unless  it  be  by  quiet  study,  and 
such  fruits  as  may  come  of  it.  I  have  encountered  so 
much  misconstruction  within  a  year  past,  or  rather  have 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  so  much,  that  I  am  seriously 
tempted,  at  times,  to  retire  from  the  pulpit,  from  the 
church,  from  the  open  field  of  controversy  in  every  form, 
and  to  spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  in  studies,  which, 
if  they  last  long  enough,  may  produce  a  book  or  two  that 
will  not  subject  me  to  that  sort  of  personal  inquisition 
which  I  find  has  beset  me  hitherto. 

You  may  be  surprised  at  my  saying  this,  and  may  ask 
if  I  have  not  had  as  much  honor  and  praise  as  I  deserve. 
I  do  not  deny  it.  But  still  there  is,  unless  I  am  mis- 
taken, a  sort  of  question  about  me  as  a  professional  per- 
son, —  about  my  professional  sanctity,  or  strictness,  or 
peculiarity,  that  moves  my  indignation,  I  must  say,  but 
(what  is  more  serious)  that  makes  me  doubt  whether, 
as  a  clergyman,  I  am  doing  any  good  that  is  proportion- 
ate to  my  endeavors,  and  inclines  me  to  retreat  from  this 
ground  altogether.  How,  for  instance,  if  I 'have  any 
desirable  place  in  one  denomination,  could  the  "  Chris- 
tian World  "  venture  to  say  that  I  had  done  more  hurt 

13 


194  Letters. 

by  my  observation  about  teetotalism  in  my  Washington 
discourse  than  all  the  grog-shops  in  the  land  !  How 
could  a  clerical  brother  of  mine  seriously  propose,  as  if 
he  spoke  the  sense  of  many,  to  have  me  admonished 
about  my  habits  of  living,  -^  of  eating,  he  said,  but  per- 
haps he  meant  drinking,  too,  —  my  habits,  who  am  a 
remarkably  simple  and  small  eater ;  and,  as  to  wine,  do 
not  taste  it  one  day  in  twenty  !  Yet  this  person  actu- 
ally attributed  my  ill-health  to  luxurious  living.  I  live  as 
I  list ;  I  feast  as  other  men  feast,  when  I  am  at  a  feast, 
which  is  very  rarely ;  I  laugh  as  other  men  laugh ;  I  will 
not  have  any  clerical  peculiarity  in  my  manners ;  and  if 
this  cannot  be  understood,  I  will  retire  from  the  profes- 
sion, for  I  will  be  a  man  more  than  a  minister.  1  came 
into  the  profession  from  the  simplest  possible  impulse,  — 
from  a  religious  impulse ;  I  have  spoken  in  it  as  I  would, 
—  with  earnestness,  if  nothing  else,  —  and  I  cannot 
throw  away  this  earnestness  upon  a  distrusting  com- 
munity. Besides,  I  confess  that  I  am  peculiarly  sensi- 
tive to  personal  wrong.  I  do  not  suppose  that  this 
blackguardism  of  the  Abolition  press  would  have  found 
anywhere  a  more  sensitive  subject  than  I  am.  It  fills 
me  with  horror,  —  as  if  I  had  been  struck  with  a  blow, 
and  beaten  into  the  mire  and  dust  in  the  very  street. 

I  must  have  some  great  fatilts,  —  that  is  my  conclu- 
sion, —  and  such  faults,  perhaps,  as  unfit  me  for  doing 
much  good.  I  open  my  heart  to  you.  God  bless  you 
and  yours. 

Your  assured  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  195 


To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  Oct.  19,  1847. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  cannot  feel  easy  without  know- 
ing how  little  C.  is  getting  along.  I  pray  you  to  take 
your  pen,  if  you  are  not  too  busy,  or  she  too  ill,  and  tell 
me  how  she  is. 

And  now,  having  my  pen  in  hand,  I  could  and  should 
go  on  and  write  a  letter  to  you,  were  it  not  that  all  ingenu- 
ity, fancy,  liberty  of  writing,  is  put  to  a  complete  nonplus 
by  the  uncertainty  in  what  state  of  mind  my  writing  will 
find  yoii.  I  must  not  write  merrily,  I  would  not  write 
sadly.  I  hope  all  is  well,  I  fear  all  is  not,  and  I  know 
not  how  to  blend  the  two  moods,  though  an  apostle  has 
said,  "As  sorrowful,  yet  always  rejoicing."  But  apos- 
tolic states  of  mind  somehow  seem  to  me  too  great  to 
enter  into  letters,  and  there  is  nothing  to  me  more  sur- 
prising than  to  find  in  biography  —  Foster's,  for  instance 
—  long  letters  occupied  with  the  profoundest  questions 
in  religion.  If  I  were  not  habitually  engaged  in  the  con- 
templation of  such  subjects,  if  I  had  not  another  and 
appropriate  vehicle  for  them,  and  if  they  did  not  always 
seem  to  me  too  vast  for  a  sheet  or  two  of  paper,  I  sup- 
pose that  my  letters,  too,  might  be  wise  and  weighty. 
As  it  is,  they  are  always  mere  relaxations,  or  mere  chip- 
pings  and  parings  from  the  greater  themes,  at  the  most. 
So  you  see  that  neither  you  nor  the  public  lose  any- 
thing by  my  being  a  negligent  and  reluctant  letter-writer. 

Well,  I  shall  make  a  serious  letter,  if  I  do  not  mind, 
about  nothing,  and  so  doubly  disprove  all  I  have  been 
saying.  I  trust  C.  is  getting  well,  but  I  am  always  anx- 
ious about  that  fever.    Pray  write  a  word  to  relieve  my 


196  Letters. 

solicitude,  which  my  wife  shares  with  me,  as  in  the  affec- 
tionate regard  with  which  I  am, 

Ever  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

Our  kind  remembrances  to  Mr.  Lane.  We  are  busy, 
as  city  people  cannot  conceive  of,  in  getting  the  indoors 
and  outdoors  to  rights. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows. 

Sheffield,  Nov.  26,  1847. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  have  thought  much  of  what  you 
said  the  other  morning ;  and  though  I  expect  to  see  you 
again  in  a  fortnight,  I  cannot  let  the  interval  pass  with- 
out a  few  words.  The  new  interest  in  your  mind,  as  far 
as  it  is  spiritual,  and  the  new  measures  you  propose  to 
adopt  in  your  church,  so  far  as  I  understand  them,  have 
my  entire  sympathy.  But  I  demur  to  your  manner  of 
stating  the  speculative  grounds  of  this  change  in  your 
feeling  and  view.  Certainly  my  mind  is,  and  has  been 
for  a  long  time,  running  in  a  direction  contrary  to  your 
present  leanings.  I  cannot  think  that  human  nature  is 
so  low  and  helpless  as  you  seem  to  think,  nor  that  the 
Gospel  is  so  entirely  the  one  and  exclusive  remedy. 
And  yet  I  agree,  too,  with  much  (in  its  practical  bear- 
ing) of  what  you  say,  in  the  direction  that  your  mind 
is  taking.  I  have  often  insisted  in  the  pulpit  that  the 
people  do  not  yet  understand  Christianity ;  its  spiritual 
nature,  however,  rather  than  its  positive  facts,  its  simple 
love  and  disinterestedness  rather  than  its  supernatural- 
ism,  were  to  me  the  points  where  they  have  failed.  .  .  . 
I  fully  admit,  too,  the  need  of  progress  in  our  denomina- 
tion, but  I  do  not  believe  in  any  grand  new  era  to  be 


Letters.  197 

introduced  into  its  history  by  the  views  you  urge,  or  any 
other  views.  All  good  progress  must  be  gradual.  If 
there  is  a  revolution  in  your  mind,  does  it  follow  that  that 
must  be  the  measure  for  others,  for  your  brethren,  for 
the  denomination,  in  past  or  present  time  ? 

Your  sympathies  are  wide ;  the  tendency  to  outward 
action  is  strong  in  you  ;  your  generous  nature  opens  the 
doors  of  your  mind  to  light  from  every  quarter ;  need  is, 
to  carry  on  a  strong  discriminating  work  in  a  mind  like 
yours.  With  your  nature,  so  utterly  opposed  to  every- 
thing sluggish  and  narrow,  you  have  need  of  a  large  and 
well-considered  philosophy,  "  looking  before  and  after," 
and  settling  all  things  in  their  right  places,  and  question- 
ing every  new-coming  thought  with  singular  caution,  lest 
it  push  you  from  your  propriety  or  consistency.  In  truth, 
you  quite  mistake  me  when  you  say  that  I  have  not 
studied  your  mind.  I  have  watched  its  workings  with 
the  greatest  interest,  often  with  admiration,  and  some- 
times —  may  I  say  ?  —  with  anxiety.  There  was  a  time 
when  I  greatly  feared  that  you  would  go  the  lengths  of 
Parker.  The  turn  in  your  mind  to  what  I  deem  healthier 
views  took  place  about  the  time  I  went  abroad ;  and  the 
relief  your  letters  gave  me  while  I  was  in  Europe,  you 
can  hardly  have  suspected.  Now,  it  seems  to  me,  you 
are  liable  to  go  to  the  opposite  extreme.  The  truth  is, 
your  intellectual  insight  seems  to  me  greater  than  your 
breadth  of  view,  your  penetration  greater  than  your  com- 
prehension; and  the  consequence  has  been  a  course 
of  thought,  as  I  believe  you  are  aware,  somewhat 
zigzag. 

Have  I  not  thought  of  you,  my  dear  fellow  ?  I  guess 
I  have ;  and  among  other  things  I  have  so  thought  of 
you  that  I  now  entirely  confide  in  the  magnanimity  of 


198  Letters. 

your  mind  to  receive  with  candor  all  this,  and  more  if  I 
should  say  it,  —  saying  it,  as  I  do,  in  the  truest  love  and 
cherishing  of  you. 

My  love  to  E.  and  all  the  phalanstery. 

As  ever,  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

P.  S.  I  read  this  letter  to  my  wife  last  evening,  and 
I  told  her  of  your  criticism  on  the  sermon  at  Providence. 
She  made  the  very  rejoinder  that  I  made  to  you,  —  "The 
power  to  cast  one's  self  on  the  great  Christian  resource, 
to  put  one's  self  in  relation  with  God  the  Father  and 
with  spiritual  help,  is  the  very  power  which  he  denies  to 
human  nature,  and  the  very  thing  that  Mr.  H.  contended 
for."  Nor  yet  do  I  like  your  mode  of  statement,  for 
Christianity  does  not  represent  itself  to  me  as  a  sort  of 
Noah's  Ark,  and  human  nature  as  in  stormy  waters,  —  to 
be  saved  if  it  can  get  its  foot  on  that  plank,  and  not 
otherwise.  I  prefer  my  figure  of  the  shower  specially 
sent  on  the  feeble  and  half- withered  plant.  All  the 
divines  of  every  school  have  always  said  that  there  is 
light  enough  in  nature,  if  with  true  docility  and  love  men 
would  follow  it.  Christ  came  to  shed  more  light  on  our 
path,  not  the  only  light ;  to  lift  up  the  lame  man,  not  to 
create  limbs  for  him  or  to  be  limbs  for  him. 

And  I  confess,  too,  that  I  do  not  like  another  aspect 
in  the  state  of  your  mind ;  and  that  is,  that  your  newly 
awakened  zeal  should  fasten,  as  it  seems  to  do,  upon  the 
positive  facts  and  the  supematuralism  of  Christianity. 
Not,  as  I  think,  that  I  undervalue  them.  I  do  not  know 
of  any  rational  and  thinking  man  that  lays  more  stress 
on  them  in  their  place  than  I  do.  But  certainly  there  is 
something  beyond  to  which  they  point ;  and  that  is,  the 


Letters.  199 

deep  spiritualism  of  the  Gospel,  the  deep  heart's  repose 
and  sufificiency  in  things  divine  and  infinite.  If  your 
mind  had  fastened  upon  this  as  the  newly  found  treasure 
in  the  Gospel,  I  should  have  been  better  satisfied.  I  ar^ 
writing  very  frankly  to  you,  as  you  are  wont  to  write  to 
me  (and  I  believe  that  you  and  I  can  bear  these  terms, 
and  bless  them  too),  and  therefore  I  will  add  that  my 
greatest  distrust  of  your  spiritual  nature  turns  to  this  very 
point :  whether  you  have,  in  the  same  measure  as  you 
have  other  things,  that  deep  heart's  rest,  that  quiet,  pro- 
found, all-sufficing  satisfaction  in  the  infinite  resource,  in 
the  all-embosoming  love  of  the  All-Good,  in  silent  and 
solitary  communion  with  God,  settling  and  sinking  the 
soul,  as  into  the  still  waters  and  the  ocean  depths.  Your 
nature  runs  to  social  communions,  to  visible  move- 
ments, to  outwardness,  in  short,  more  than  to  the  cen- 
tral depths  within.  The  defects  in  your  preaching,  which 
I  have  heard  pointed  out  by  the  discerning,  are  the 
want  of  consistency,  —  of  one  six  months  with  another 
six  months,  —  and  the  want  of  spiritual  depth  and  vital- 
ity ;  of  that  calm,  deep  tone  of  thought  and  feeling  that 
goes  to  the  depths  of  the  heart. 

God  knows  that  I  do  very  humbly  attempt  to  criticise 
another's  religion  and  preaching,  being  inexpressibly 
concerned  about  the  defects  of  my  own.  And,  dear 
friend,  I  speak  to  you  as  modestly  as  I  do  frankly.  I 
may  be  wrong,  or  I  may  be  only  partly  right.  But  in 
this  crisis  I  think  that  I  ought  to  say  plainly  what  I  feel 
and  fear.  I  cannot  bear,  for  every  reason,  —  for  your 
sake  and  for  the  sake  of  the  church,  in  which,  for  your 
age,  you  are  rooting  yourself  so  deeply,  —  that  you 
should  make  any  misstep  on  the  ground  upon  which 
you  seem  to  be  entering. 


200  Letters. 


To  Rev.   William   Ware. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  6,  1847. 

My  Dear  Ware,  —  I  think  my  pen  will  run  on,  with 
such  words  to  start  from,  though  it  have  spent  itself  on 
the  weary  "Sermons."  This  is  Monday  morning,  and 
I  am  not  quite  ready  in  mind  to  begin  on  a  new  one. 
The  readiness,  with  me,  is  nine  tenths  of  the  battle.  I 
never,  or  almost  never,  write  a  sermon  unless  it  be  upon 
a  subject  that  I  want  to  write  upon.  I  never  cast  about 
for  a  subject ;  I  do  not  find  the  theme,  but  the  theme 
finds  me.  Last  week  I  departed  from  my  way,  and  did 
not  make  good  progress.  The  text,  "  What  shall  it  profit 
a  man  ?  "  struck  upon  my  heart  as  I  sat  down  on  Monday 
morning,  and  I  wrote  it  at  the  head  of  my  usual  seven 
sheets  of  white  paper,  and  went  on.  But  the  awfiilness 
of  the  text  impressed  me  all  the  while  with  the  sense  of 
failure,  and  though  the  sermon  was  finished,  I  mainly 
felt  at  the  end  that  I  had  lost  my  week. 

One  thing  I  find  in  my  preaching,  more  and  more,  and 
that  is  that  the  simplest  things  become  more  and  more 
weighty  to  me,  so  that  a  sermon  does  not  require  to  be 
anything  remarkable  to  interest  me  deeply.  Everything 
that  I  say  in  the  pulpit,  I  think,  is  taking  stronger  and 
stronger  hold  upon  me,  and  that  which  might  have  been 
dull  in  my  utterance  ten  years  ago,  is  not  so  now.  I  say 
this  to  you,  because  it  has  some  bearing  on  one  of  the 
matters  discussed  in  our  last  letters ;  that  is,  whether  I 
should  leave  the  pulpit.  If  I  leave  it,  it  will  be  with  a 
fresher  life  in  it,  I  think,  than  has  stirred  in  me  at  any 
previous  part  of  my  course.  And  certainly  I  have  long 
believed  that  it  was  my  vocation  to  preach,  above  all 
things,  —  more  than  to  visit  parishioners,  though  I  always 


Letters.  201 

visit  every  one  of  them  once  a  year,  —  more  than  to 
write,  though  you  say  I  have  written  to  some  purpose 
(and  your  opinion  is  a  great  comfort  to  me).  Certainly, 
then,  I  shall  not  retire  from  the  pulpit,  but  upon  the 
maturest  reflection  and  for  what  shall  seem  to  be  the 
weightiest  reasons.  And  I  did  not  mean  that  the  things 
I  referred  to  '^o\iSA\)Q  prima  facie  reasons  for  retirement ; 
but  the  question  with  me  was  whether  my  unprofessional 
way  of  thinking  and  acting  were  not  so  misconstrued  as 
to  lessen  my  power  to  do  good ;  whether  the  good  I  do 
is  in  any  proportion  to  the  strength  I  lay  out. 

But  enough  of  myself,  when  I  am  much  more  con- 
cerned about  you.  I  see  plainly  enough  how  intense  is 
your  desire  to  go  to  Rome.  I  see  how  all  your  culture 
and  taste  and  feeling  urge  you  to  go,  and  yet  more  what 
a  reason  in  many  ways  your  health  supplies.  And  I 
declare  the  author  of  Zenobia  and  Probus  and  Julian 
ought  to  go  to  Rome  !  There  is  a  fitness  in  it,  and  I 
trust  it  will  come  to  pass.  But  you  should  not  go  alone. 
Every  one  wants  company  in  such  a  tour,  —  that  I  know 
full  well ;  but  your  health  demands  it.  You  must  not  be 
subject  to  sudden  seizures  in  a  strange  city,  —  a  stranger, 
alone.  Your  family  never  will  consent  to  it,  and  I  think 
never  ought  to.  Do  give  up  that  idea  entirely,  —  of  going 
alone.  Have  patience.  There  will  be  somebody  to  go 
with  next  spring,  or  next  summer.  I  would  that  I  could" 
go  with  you  where  you  go,  and  lodge  with  you  where  you 
lodge.  But  somebody  will  go.  Something  better  will 
turn  up,  at  any  rate,  than  to  go  alone.  There  are  young 
men  every  year  who  want  to  go  abroad  in  quest  of  art 
and  beauty  and  culture,  and  to  whom  your  company 
would  be  invaluable.  I  do  not  forget  the  difficulty  about 
expense.     But  there  are  those  who,  like  you,  would  be 


202  Letters. 

glad  to  go  directly  by  Marseilles  or  Leghorn.  It  is  quite 
true  that  movement  is  the  mischief  with  the  purse.  Abid- 
ing in  Rome  or  Florence,  you  can  live  for  a  dollar  a  day. 
A  room,  or  two  rooms  (parlor  and  little  sleeping-room), 
say  near  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  or  the  Propaganda  just 
by,  can  be  hired,  with  bed,  etc.,  all  to  be  kept  in  order, 
for  three  or  four  pauls  (thirty  or  forty  cents,  you 
know)  a  day.  And  you  can  breakfast  at  a  cafe,  any  time 
you  fancy,  while  wandering  about,  for  two  pauls,  and 
dine  at  a  trattoria  for  from  two  to  four  pauls.  I  have 
more  than  once  dined  on  a  bowl  of  soup  and  bread  and 
butter  for  two  pauls.  I  hate  heavy  dinners.  In  Rome, 
one  should  always  take  a  room  in  which  the  sun  lies. 
"Where  the  sun  comes,  the  doctor  doesn't,"  they  say 
there.  But  you  won't  go  before  I  come  and  see  you 
and  talk  it  all  over  with  you.  Don't  fail  to  let  me  know 
if  you  set  seriously  about  it,  for  I  shall  certainly  come. 
The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Ware  should  go  with  you.  It  is  true 
the  women  are  very  precious  when  it  comes  to  casting 
them  up  in  a  bill  of  expense,  as  in  all  things  else.  Does 
not  that  last  clause  save  me,  madam?  And,  madam 
dear,  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  this  project  of  Wil- 
liam's, as  much  as  I  want  to  hear  what  he  says. 

About  the  war,  dear  Gulielmus,  and  slavery,  and 
almost  everything  else  under  heaven,  I  verily  believe 
I  think  just  as  you  do ;  so  I  need  not  write.  And 
my  hand  is  very  tired.  With  ten  thousand  blessings  on 
you, 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  203 

To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Sheffield, /uty  13,  1848. 

Dear  Molly,  —  You  're  an  awful  miss  when  you  're 
not  here ;  what  will  you  be,  then,  when  you  descend 
upon  us  from  the  heights  of  Lenox,  —  from  the  schools 
of  wisdom,  from  fiction  and  fine  writing,  from  tragedy 
and  comedy,  from  mountain  mirrors  reflecting  all-sur- 
rounding beauty,  down  to  plain,  prosaic  still-hfe  in  Shef- 
field ?  I  look  with  anxiety  and  terror  for  the  time  ;  and,  to 
keep  you  within  the  sphere  of  familiarity  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, I  think  it  best  to  write  sometimes ;  and,  to  adopt 
the  converse  of  the  Western  man's  calling  his  bill  "  Wil- 
ham,"  I  call  my  WiUiam,  bill,  —  my  Mary,  Molly,  thereby 
softening,  molUfying  (as  I  may  say)  the  case  as  much  as 
possible. 

One  thing  I  must  desire  of  you.  You  are  on  an  ex- 
periment.i  Now  be  honest.  Don't  bring  any  "  sneesh- 
in  "  down  here  to  throw  dust  in  our  poor,  simple  eyes 
in  the  valley.  Much  as  ever  we  can  see  anything  for 
fogs.  Mind  ye,  /  shall  be  sharp,  though.  If  you  fall 
into  any  of  those  practices,  I  shall  say  you  brought  the 
trick  from  Lenox.  You  may  say  "  I-ketch-you  "  as 
much  as  you  please,  but  you  won't  ketch  me. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  19,  1848. 
My  Dear  Bellows,  —  Now  shall  I  heap  coals  of  fire 
on  your  head.     You  ought  to  have  written  to  me  forty 
days  ago.      Your  letter  bears   date   of   yesterday.      I 

1  To  try  whether  the  air  of  Lenox,  on  the  hills,  would  have 
any  effect  in  averting  an  annual  attack  of  hay-fever. 


204  Letters. 

received  it  this  afternoon.  I  am  replying  this  evening. 
How  does  your  brain-pan  feel,  with  this  coal  upon  it? 
"  How  has  it  happened  that  there  has  been  no  commu- 
nication? "  Why,  it  has  happened  from  your  being  the 
most  unapprehensive  mortal  that  ever  lived,  or  from  your 
having  your  wits  whirled  out  of  you  by  that  everlasting 
New  York  tornado.  As  to  letters,  I  wrote  the  two  last, 
though  the  latter  was  a  bit  of  one.  As  to  the  circum- 
stances, my  withdrawal  from  your  society  was  involun- 
tary, and  painful  to  me.  You  should  have  written  at 
once  to  your  emeritus  coadjutor,  your  senior  friend.  I 
have  been  half  vexed  with  you,  my  people  quite. 

There  !  I  love  you  too  much  not  to  say  all  that.  But 
I  am  not  an  exacting  or  punctilious  person,  and  that  is 
one  reason  why  we  have  got  along  so  well  together ;  as 
well  as  that  you  are  one  whom  nobody  can  know  with- 
out taking  a  plaguy  kindness  and  respect  for,  and  can't 
help  it.  And  all  that  you  say  about  our  past  relation  and 
intercourse  I  heartily  reciprocate,  excepting  that  which 
does  you  less  than  justice,  and  me  more.  As  to  deep 
talks,  I  really  believe  there  is  no  chance  for  them  in 
Gotham.  And  this  reminds  me  that  my  wife  has  just 
been  in  my  study  to  desire  me  to  send  a  most  earnest 
invitation  to  you  and  E.  to  come  up  here  this  winter  and 
pass  a  few  days  with  us.  It  will  be  easier  than  you  may 
think  at  first.  The  New  York  and  New  Haven  Railroad 
will  be  open  in  a  few  days,  and  then  you  can  be  here  in 
seven  or  eight  hours  from  your  own  door.  Do  think  of 
it,  —  and  more  than  think  of  it. 

To  the  Same. 

Are  n't  you  a  pretty  fellow,  —  worse  than  Procrustes, 
—  to  go  about  the  world,  measuring  people's  talent  and 


Letters.  205 

promise  by  their  noses  ?  .  .  .  Why,  man,  Claude  Lorraine 
and  Boccaccio  and  Burke  had  "  small  noses ;  "  and  Kos- 
ciusko and  George  Buchanan  had  theirs  turned  up,  and 
could  n't  help  it.  It  reminds  me  of  what  a  woman  of 
our  town  said,  who  had  married  a  very  heinous-looking 
blacksmith.  Some  companions  of  our  "  smithess  "  saw 
him  coming  along  in  the  street  one  day,  and  unwit- 
tingly exclaimed,  '*  What  dreadful- looking  man  is  that?" 
"That's  my  husband,"  said  the  wife,  "and  God  made 
him." 

To  the  Same. 

Sheffield, /a«.  2,  1849. 

My  Dear  Bellows,  —  Your  letter  came  on  New 
Year's  Day,  and  helped  to  some  of  those  cachinnations 
usually  thought  to  belong  to  such  a  time ;  though  for 
my  part  I  can  never  find  set  times  particularly  happy  or 
even  interesting,  —  partly,  I  beheve,  from  a  certain  ob- 
stinacy of  disposition  that  does  not  like  to  do  what  is  set 
down  for  it. 

As  to  church  matters,  I  said  nothing  to  you  when  I 
was  down  last,  because  I  knew  nothing.  That  is,  I  had 
no  hint  of  what  the  congregation  was  about  to  do,  —  no 
idea  of  anything  in  my  connection  with  the  church  that 
needed  to  be  spoken  of.  I  was  indeed  thinking,  for 
some  weeks  before  I  went  down,  of  saying  to  the  con- 
gregation, that  unless  they  thought  my  services  very  im- 
portant to  them,  I  should  rather  they  would  dispense 
with  them,  and  my  mind  was  just  in  an  even  balance 
about  the  matter.  But  one  is  always  influenced  by  the 
feeUng  around  him,  —  at  least  I  am,  —  and  when  I 
found  that  every  one  who  spoke  with  me  about  my 
coming  again  seemed  to  depend  upon  it,  and  to  be  much 


2o6  Letters. 

interested  in  it,  I  determined  to  say  nothing  about  with- 
drawing. My  reasons  for  wishing  to  retire  were,  that  I 
was  working  hard  —  hard  for  me  —  to  prepare  sermons 
which,  as  my  engagement  in  my  view  was  temporary, 
might  be  of  no  further  use  to  me ;  and  that  if  I  were  to 
enter  upon  a  new  course  of  life,  the  sooner  I  did  so  the 
better. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  dispose  of  what  you  and 
others  say  and  urge  with  regard  to  my  continuance  in 
the  profession.  To  your  question  whether  I  have  not 
sermons  enough  to  last  me  for  five  years  in  some  new 
place,  I  answer,  No,  not  enough  for  two.  And  if  I  had, 
I  tell  you  that  I  cannot  enter  into  these  affecting  and 
soul-exhausting  relations  again  and  again,  any  more  than 
I  could  be  married  three  or  four  times.  The  great 
trial  of  our  calling  is  the  wrenching,  the  agonizing,  of 
sympathy  with  affliction ;  and  there  is  another  trying 
thing  -which  I  have  thought  of  much  of  late,  and  that  is 
the  essential  moral  incongruity  of  such  relations,  and 
especially  with  strangers.  I  almost  feel  as  if  nobody  but 
an  intimate  friend  had  any  business  in  a  house  of  deep 
affliction.  In  a  congregation  ever  so  familiar  there  is 
trial  enough  of  this  kind.  If  my  friend  is  sick  or  dying, 
I  go  to  his  bedside  of  course,  but  it  is  as  a  friend,  — -  to 
say  a  word  or  many  words  as  the  case  may  be  ;  to  look 
what  I  cannot  say ;  to  do  what  I  can.  But  to  come 
there,  or  to  come  to  the  desolate  mourner,  in  an  official 
capacity,  —  there  is  something  in  this  which  is  in  painful 
conflict  with  my  ideas  of  the  simple  relations  of  man 
with  man.  Now  all  this  difficulty  is  greatly  increased 
when  one  enters  upon  a  new  ministration  in  a  congrega- 
tion of  strangers.  Therefore  on  every  account  I  must 
say,  no  more  pastoral  relations  for  me.     I  cannot  take 


Letters.  207 

up  into  my  heart  another  heap  of  human  chance  and 
change  and  sorrow.  Do  you  not  see  it?  Why,  what 
takes  place  in  New  Bedford  now  moves  me  a  hundred 
times  more  than  all  else  that  is  in  the  world.  And  so  it 
will  always  be  with  all  that  befalls  my  brethren  in  the 
Church  of  the  Messiah. 

As  to  the  world's  need  of  help,  I  regard  it  doubtless  as 
you  do ;  and  I  am  willing  and  desirous  to  help  it  from 
the  pulpit  as  far  as  I  am  able.  But  I  cannot  hold  that 
sort  of  irregular  connection  with  the  pulpit  called  "  sup- 
plying "  ;  nor  can  I  go  out  on  distant  missionary  enter- 
prises, —  to  Cincinnati,  Mobile,  or  New  Orleans.  The 
first  would  yield  me  no  support ;  and  as  to  the  last,  I  must 
live  in  my  family.  Besides,  there  is  sphere  enough  with 
the  pen ;  and  study  may  do  the  world  as  much  good  as 
action.  And  there  is  no  doubt  what  direction  my 
studies  must  take.  Why,  I  have  written  out  within  a 
week  —  written  incontinently  in  my  commonplace  book, 
my  pen  would  run  on  —  a  thesis  on  Pantheism  nearly 
as  long  as  a  sermon.  And  as  to  preaching,  what  ground 
have  I  to  think  that  mine  is  of  any  particular  impor- 
tance ?  Not  that  I  mean  to  affect  any  humility  which 
I  do  not  feel.  I  profess  that  I  have  quite  a  good 
opinion  of  myself  as  a  preacher.  Seriously,  I  think  I 
have  one  or  two  rather  remarkable  qualifications  for 
preaching,  —  a  sense  of  reality  in  the  matter  of  the 
vitality  of  the  thing,  and  then  an  edge  of  feeling  (so  it 
seems  to  me)  which  takes  off  the  technical  and  common- 
place character  from  discourse.  Oh  !  if  I  could  add,  a 
full  sense  of  the  divineness  of  the  thing,  I  should  say  all. 
Yet  something  of  this,  too,  I  hope  ;  and  I  hope  to  grow 
in  this  as  I  hope  to  live,  and  do  not  dread  to  die.  But 
though  /think  all  this,  with  all  due  modesty,  it  does  not 


208  Letters. 

follow  that  others  do ;  and  the  evidence  seems  to  be 
rather  against  it,  does  it  not  ? 

As  ever,  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

In  connection  with  this  letter;  and  with  his  own 
frank  but  moderate  estimate  of  his  gift  as  a 
preacher,  it  is  interesting  to  read  the  following 
extract  from  a  paper  in  his  memory,  read  before 
the  annual  meeting  of  the  American  Unitarian 
Association  by  Rev.  Dr.  Briggs,  May  30,  1882 : 

"  I  remember  well  the  way  in  which  he  seemed  to  me 
to  be  a  power  in  the  pulpit.  He  was  the  first  man  who 
made  the  pulpit  seem  to  me  as  a  throne.  When  he 
stood  in  it,  I  recognized  him  as  king.  I  remember  how 
eager  I  was  to  walk  in  from  the  Theological  School  at 
Cambridge  to  hear  him  when  there  was  an  opportunity 
to  do  so  in  any  of  the  pulpits  of  Boston.  I  remember 
walking  with  my  classmate,  Nathaniel  Hall,  —  when  the 
matter  of  the  expense  of  a  passage  was  of  great  concern 
to  me,  —  to  Providence,  where  Mr.  Dewey  was  to  preach 
at  the  installation  of  Dr.  Hall.  My  Brother  Hall  was 
not  drawn  there  simply  for  the  sake  of  his  brother's  in- 
stallation, I,  not  from  the  fact  that  Providence  was  the 
home  of  my  boyhood  ;  but  both  of  us,  more  than  by  any- 
thing else,  by  our  eager  desire  to  hear  this  preacher  where 
he  might  give  us  a  manifestation  of  his  power.  And,  as 
he  spoke  from  the  text,  '  I  have  preached  righteousness 
in  the  great  congregation,'  we  felt  that  we  were  well 
repaid  for  all  our  efforts  to  come  and  listen  to  him. 

-"I  have  heard  of  some  one  who  heard  him  preach  from 
the  text  on  dividing  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  and  as  he 
came  away,  he  said,  *  I  felt  as  if  I  were  standing  before 


Letters,  209 

the  judgment-seat.'  I  remember  hearing  him  preach 
from  the  text,  *  Thou  art  the  man,'  and  I  felt  that  that 
word  was  addressed  to  me  as  directly  as  it  was  by  the 
prophet  to  the  king.  His  was  a  power  scarcely  known 
to  the  men  of  this  later  generation. 

"It  would  be  difficult,  I  think,  to  analyze  his  character 
and  mind,  and  to  say  just  in  what  his  power  consisted. 
He  did  not  have  the  reasoning  power  that  distinguished 
Dr.  Walker ;  he  did  not  have  the  poetic  gift  that  gave 
such  a  charm  to  the  sermons  of  Ephraim  Peabody ;  he 
did  not  have  that  peculiarity  of  speech  which  made  the 
sermons  of  Dr.  Putnam  so  effective  upon  the  congrega- 
tion, and  yet  he  was  the  peer  of  any  one  of  them.  It  was, 
I  think,  because  the  truth  had  possession  of  his  whole 
being  when  he  spoke.  It  was  because  he  always  had  a 
high  ideal  of  the  pulpit,  and  was  striving  to  come  up  to 
it,  and  because  he  went  to  the  pulpit  with  that  prepa- 
ration which  alone  makes  any  preaching  effective,  and 
which  will  make  it  mighty  forever." 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  26,  1849. 
My  Dear  Bellows,  —  I  came  from  Albany  to-day  at 
noon,  and  have  had  but  this  afternoon  to  reflect  upon 
your  letter.  But  I  see  that  you  ought  to  have  an  an- 
swer immediately ;  and  my  reply  to  your  proposition  to 
me  grows  out  of  such  decided  considerations,  that  they 
seem  to  me  to  require  no  longer  deliberation.  I  see 
that  you  desire  my  help,  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  can- 
not offer  it  to  you ;  but  consider.  You  ask  of  me  what, 
with  my  habits  of  thought  and  methods  of  working, 
would  be  equal  to  writing  one  sermon  in  a  fortnight.  I 
14 


210  Letters. 

would  rather  do  this  than  to  write  four  or  even  three 
columns  for  the  "  Inquirer,"  considering,  especially,  that 
I  must  find  such  a  variety  of  topics,  and  must  furnish  the 
tale  of  brick  every  week.  I  have  always  been  obliged 
to  work  irregularly,  when  I  could ;  and  this  weekly  task- 
work would  allow  no  indulgence  to  such  poor  habits  of 
study.  Besides,  this  task  would  occupy  my  whole  mind ; 
that  is,  such  shattered  mind  as  I  have  at  present  to  give 
to  anything ;  I  could  do  nothing  else,  —  nothing  to  supply 
my  lack  of  means  to  live  upon.  I  could  better  take  the 
"Christian  Examiner;"  it  would  cost  me  much  less 
labor,  and  it  would  give  me  the  necessary  addition  to 
my  income,  provided  I  could  find  some  nook  at  the 
eastward  where  I  could  live  as  cheaply  as  I  can  here. 

I  think  the  case  must  be  as  plain  to  your  mind  as  it  is 
to  mine.  If  I  were  to  occupy  any  place  in  your  army, 
it  would  be  in  the  flying  artillery ;  these  solid  columns 
will  never  do  for  me.  Why,  I  can't  remember  the  time 
when  I  have  written  twenty-five  sermons  in  a  year,  and 
that,  I  insist,  is  the  amount  of  labor  you  desire  of  me. 
You  may  think  that  I  overrate  it,  and  you  speak  of  my 
writing  from  ''  the  level  of  my  mind."  The  highest  level 
is  low  enough,  and  this  I  say  in  sad  sincerity.  In  fact,  if 
nothing  offers  itself  for  me  to  do  that  I  can  do,  I  think  that 
I  shall  let  the  said  mind  lie  as  fallow  ground  for  a  while, 
hoping  that,  through  God's  blessing,  leisure  and  leisurely 
studies  may  give  strength  for  some  good  work  by  and  by. 
How  to  live,  in  the  mean  time,  is  the  question ;  but  I  can 
live  poor,  and  must,  if  necessary,  trench  upon  my  princi- 
pal. But  if  I  am  driven  to  this  resort,  I  will  make  thorough 
work  of  it ;  I  will  bind  myself  to  no  duty,  professional, 
literary,  or  journalistic ;,  if  a  book,  or  a  little  course  of 
lectures,  or  any  other  little  thing  comes  out  from  under 


Letters.  2 1 1 

my  hands  at  the  end  of  one,  two,  or  three  years,  let  it ; 
but  I  will  do  nothing  upon  compulsion,  though  the 
things  to  do  be  as  thick  as  blackberries.  There  's  my 
profession  of —  duty  !  I  have  worked  hard,  however 
imperfectly.  I  have  worked  in  weariness,  in  tribulation, 
and  to  the  very  edge  of  peril ;  and  I  believe  that  the 
high  Taskmaster,  to  whom  I  thus  refer  with  humble  and 
solemn  awe,  will  pardon  me  some  repose,  if  circum- 
stances beyond  my  control  assign  it  to  me  for  my  lot. 

As  to  the  "  Inquirer,"  in  times  past,  you  should  re- 
member that  in  what  I  said  of  it  that  was  disparaging,  I 
excepted  your  part  in  it.  That  certainly  has  not  lacked 
interest,  whatever  else  it  has  lacked.  You  have,  I  think, 
some  remarkable  qualifications  for  the  proposed  enter- 
prise ;  and  if  you  could  give  your  whqle  mind  and  life 
to  it,  I  should  augur  more  favorably  of  such  a  monarchy 
than  of  the  proposed  oligarchy.  You  are  a  live  man ; 
you  have  a  quick  apprehension  of  what  is  going  on 
about  you ;  you  have  insight,  generosity,  breadth  of 
view.  And  yet,  if  I  were  fully  to  state  what  I  mean  by 
this  last  qualification,  I  should  say  it  is  breadth  rather 
than  comprehension.  You  see  a  great  way  on  one  side 
of  a  subject,  rather  than  all  round.  This  requires  a 
great  deal  of  quiet,  silent  study,  and  where  you  are  going 
to  find  space  for  it,  I  do  not  see,  look  all  round  as  I  may, 
or  may  pretend  to.  What  I  shall  most  fear  about  the 
"  Inquirer"  is,  that  it  will  give  an  uncertain  sound;  and 
this  danger  will  be  increased  by  the  number  of  minds 
brought  into  it.  Associate  editors  ought  to  live  near  to 
each  other,  and  to  compare  notes.  How  do  you  know 
that  Mr.  C.  will  not  cross  Mr.  O.'s  track,  or  both  of  them 
Mr.  Bellows,  even  if  Mr.  Bellows  do  not  cross  his  own? 
You  say  you  will  put  your  own  stamp  upon  the  paper. 


212  Letters. 

of  course.  But  your  stamp  has  been  rather  indefinite 
as  yet.  "  Shaper  and  Leader,"  say  you?  Suggester  and 
Pioneer,  rather,  is  my  thought  of  your  function.  Tliis 
is  pretty  plain  talk ;  but,  confound  you,  you  can  bear  it. 
And  I  can  bear  to  say  it,  because  I  love  —  because  I 
like  you,  and  because  I  think  of  you  as  highly,  I  guess, 
as  you  ought  to  think  of  yourself.  After  all,  I  do  expect 
a  strong,  free,  living  journal  from  you,  and  the  men  of 
your  age,  or  thereabouts,  who  are  united  with  you. 

You  say  that  I  do  not  understand  a  "  certain  spirit  of 
expectation  and  seeking  "  in  these  men.  Perhaps  not ; 
it  is  vaguely  stated,  and  I  cannot  tell.  One  of  these 
days  you  will  spread  it  out  and  I  shall  see.  I  have  ideas 
of  progress,  with  which  my  thoughts  are  often  wrestling, 
and  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  them  made  more  just,  ex- 
panded, and  earnest.    With  love  to  all. 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  William   Ware. 

Sheffield,  May  25, 1849. 
My  dearly  beloved  and  longed  for,  —  I  can't  have 
you  go  to  New  York  and  not  come  here ;  and  my  special 
intent  in  writing  now  is  to  show  you  how  little  out  of 
your  way  it  is  to  return  to  Cambridge  by  Berkshire,  and 
how  little  more  expense  it  is.  I  trust  that  Mrs.  Ware  is 
to  be  with  you. 

There  !  it 's  a  short  argument,  but  a  long  conclusion 
shall  follow,  —  a  week  long  of  talk  and  pleasure,  which 
shall  be  as  good  as  forty  weeks  long,  by  the  heart's 
measurement. 


Letters.  213 

Alas  !  these  college  prayers  !  If  I  had  anything  to  do 
with  them,  it  would  be  upon  the  plan  of  remodelling 
them  entirely.  I  would  have  them  but  once  in  a  day, 
at  a  convenient  hour,  say  eight  or  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  I  would  have  leave  to  do  what  my  heart 
might  prompt  in  the  great  hours  of  adoration.  Reading 
the  Scriptures  with  a  word  of  comment,  sometimes,  or 
a  word  uttered  as  the  spirit  moved,  without  reading ;  or 
instead,  a  matin  hymn  or  old  Gregorian  chant,  solemn 
orisons,  free  breathings  of  veneration  and  joy ;  sometimes 
the  reading  of  a  prayer  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  or  of 
the  venerable  olden  time,  —  always  a  bringing  down 
of  the  great  sentiment  of  devotion  into  young  life,  to 
be  its  guidance  and  strength,  -^  this  should  be  college 
prayers.  .  .  . 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  11,  1850. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  In  the  first  place,  La  Bruy^re 
was  the  name  of  the  French  satirist  that  I  could  not  re- 
member the  other  day.  In  the  second  place,  I  have  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Lowell,  inviting  me  to  deliver  the  second 
course  of  lectures,  and  the  time  fixed  upon  is  the  winter 
after  next ;  I  can't  be  prepared  by  next  winter.  As  to 
the  title,  I  think,  after  all.  Herder's  is  the  best :  "  Phi- 
losophy of  Humanity,"  or  I  should  as  lief  say,  "  On  the 
Problem  of  Evil  in  the  World."  You  said  of  me  once  in 
some  critique,  I  believe,  that  I  always  seemed  to  write 
as  in  the  presence  of  objectors.  I  shall  be  very  likely  to 
do  so  now.  Well,  here  is  work  for  me  for  two  years 
ahead,  if  I  have  life  and  health,  and  work  that  I  like 
above  all  other.  In  the  third  place,  I  don't  think  I 
shall  do  much  for  the  "  Inquirer."     My  name  has  really 


214  Letters. 

no  business  on  the  first  page ;  in  fact,  I  never  thought 
of  its  standing  there  as  a  fixture.  I  supposed  you  would 
say  for  once  in  your  opening  that  such  and  such  persons 
would  help  you.  With  my  habits  of  writing,  I  am  bet- 
ter able  to  write  long  articles  than  short  ones ;  and  the 
"  Christian  Examiner  "  pays  more  than  you,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  regard  that  consideration.  I  must  have  three 
or  four  hundred  dollars  a  year  beyond  my  income,  or 
sell  stock,  —  a  terrible  alternative.  In  the  fourth  place, 
every  man  is  right  in  his  own  eyes ;  I  am  a  man  :  there- 
fore I  am  right  in  my  eyes.  I  am  very  unprofessional ; 
that  is,  in  regard  to  the  etiquette  and  custom  of  the 
profession.  I  am  so  ;  and  in  regard  to  the  professional 
mannerism  and  spirit  of  routine,  I  am  very  much  afraid 
of  it.  But  I  do  not  think  that  many  persons  have  ever 
enjoyed  the  religious  services  of  our  profession  more 
than  I  have ;  the  spiritual  communion,  which  is  its  spe- 
cial function,  and  that,  not  through  sermons  alone,  but 
in  sacraments,  in  baptisms,  in  fireside  conference  with 
darkened  and  troubled  minds,  has  long  been  to  me  a 
matter  of  the  profoundest  interest  and  satisfaction.  It 
is  the  one  reigning  thought  of  my  life  now  to  see  and 
to  show  how  the  Infinite  Wisdom  and  Loveliness  shine 
through  this  universe  of  forms.  To  this  will  I  devote 
myself;  nay,  am  devoted,  whether  I  will  or  not.  This 
will  I  pursue,  and  will  preach  it.  I  will  preach  it  in  the 
Lowell  Lectures.  Shall  I  be  wrong  if  I  give  up  other 
preaching  for  the  time  ?  You  think  so.  Perhaps  you 
are  right.  Any  way,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  much  impor- 
tance, I  suppose.  There  is  a  great  deal  too  much  of 
preaching,  such  as  it  is.  The  world  is  in  danger  of  be- 
ing preached  out  of  all  hearty  and  spontaneous  religion. 
What  would  you  think,  if  the  love  of  parents  and  chil- 


Letters.  215 

dren  were  made  the  subject  of  a  weekly  lecture  in  the 
family,  and  of  such  lecture  as  the  ordinary  preaching 
is  ?  Oh  !  if  a  Saint  Chrysostom,  or  even  a  Saint  Cesarius, 
or  a  Robert  Hall  could  come  along  and  speak  to  us  once 
in  half  a  year,  they  would  leave,  perljaps,  a  deeper  im- 
print than  this  perpetual  and  petrifying  drop-dropping 
of  the  sanctuary. 

By  the  bye,  read  those  extracts  from  the  sermons  of 
Saint  Cesarius,  in  the  sixteenth  lecture  of  Guizot  on 
French  civilization,  and  see  if  they  are  not  worth  insert- 
ing in  the  "  Inquirer."  The  picture  which  Guizot  gives 
in  that  and  the  following  lecture,  of  Christianity  struggling 
in  the  bosom  of  all-surrounding  wrong,  cruelty,  and  sen- 
suahsm,  is  very  beautiful.  It  is  one  of  the  indications  of 
the  raging  ultraism  of  the  time,  that  the  calm  wisdom 
and  piety  of  such  a  man  as  Guizot  should  be  so  little 
appreciated. 

When  I  read  such  writers  as  this,  I  am  rather  fright- 
ened at  my  undertaking ;  but  I  believe  there  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  to  the  people  that  is  not  beyond  me,  and  I 
shall  modestly  do  what  I  can.  I  began  yesterday  to 
study  Hegel's  "  Philosophy  of  History,"  and  though  I 
can  read  but  a  few  pages  a  day,  I  believe  I  shall  master 
it ;  and  after  one  gets  through  with  his  theory,  I  imagine, 
in  looking  at  his  topics  ahead,  that  I  shall  find  matters 
that  are  intelligible  and  practical.     I  am,  as  ever, 

Yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  25,  1850. 
My  Dear  BRYAirr,  —  You  will  remember,  perhaps,  our 
conversation  when  you  were  last  up  here,  about  our  Club 


2 1 6  Letters. 

of  the  XXI.  You  know  my  attachment  to  it.  The  loss 
of  those  pleasant  meetings  is  indeed  one  of  the  things  I 
most  regret  in  leaving  the  city.  I  cannot  bear  to  forfeit 
my  place  in  that  good  company.  In  this  feeling  I  am 
about  to  make  a  proposition  which  I  beg  you  will  present 
for  me,  and  that  you  will,  as  my  advocate,  try  to  explain 
and  show  that  it  is  not  so  enormous  as  at  first  it  may  seem. 
I  pray,  then,  my  dear  Magnus,^  that  you  will  turn  your 
poetical  genius  to  account  by  describing  the  beautiful 
ride  up  the  valley  of  the  Housatonic,  and  this  our  beau- 
tiful Berkshire,  and  will  put  in  the  statistical  fact  that  it  is 
but  six  hours  and  a  half  from  New  York  to  Sheffield,* 
and  then  will  request  the  Club  to  meet  at  my  house 
some  day  in  the  coming  summer.  I  name  Wednesday, 
the  19th  of  June.  I  propose  that  the  proper  Club- 
meeting  be  on  the  evening  of  that  day.  The  next  day  I 
propose  that  we  shall  spend  among  the  mountains,  — 
seeing  Bash -pish,  and,  if  possible,  the  SaUsbury  Lakes. 
And  I  will  thank  you,  as  my  faithful  solicitor,  that,  if  you 
are  obliged  of  your  knowledge  to  confess  to  the  fact  of 
my  very  humble  housekeeping,  you  will  also  coura- 
geously maintain  that  with  the  aid  of  my  friends  I  can 
make  our  brethren  as  comfortable  as  people  expect  to 
be  on  a  frolicking  bout,  and  that  I  can  easily  get  good 
country  wagons  to  take  them  on  a  jaunt  among  the 
mountains.  You  will  tell  me,  I  hope,  how  my  proposi- 
tion is  received ;  and  by  received,  I  do  not  mean  any 
vote  or  resolution,  but  whether  the  gentlemen  seem  to 
think  it  would  be  a  pleasant  thing. 

And  when  you  write,  tell  me  whether  you  or  Mrs. 
Bryant  chance  to  know  of  any  person  who  would  like  to 

1  Mr.  Dewey  was  wont  to  call  his  friead  "our  Magnus  Apollo." 
*  Now  lessened  to  five  hours. 


Letters.  2 1 7 

come  up  here  this  summer  and  teach  French  in  my  sis- 
ter's school  an  hour  or  two  a  day  for  a  moderate  com- 
pensation. It  must  be  a  French  person,  —  one  that  can 
speak  the  language.  Her  school  is  increasing,  and  she 
must  have  more  help. 

With  mine  and  all  our  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Bryant 
and  Julia  and  Fanny,  I  am,  as  ever. 

Yours  truly, 

Orville  Dewey. 

Tell  Mrs.  Bryant  we  depend  on  her  at  the  Club. 

To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Sheffield,  March^,  1850. 

...  As  I  suppose  you  are  tormented  with  the  ques- 
tion, "  What 's  your  father  doing  in  Sheffield?  "  you  may 
tell  them  that  I  have  taken  to  lecturing  the  people,  and 
that  I  give  a  second  lecture  to-morrow  evening,  and 
mean  to  give  a  third.  Forbye  reading  Hegel  every 
morning,  and  what  do  you  think  he  said  this  morning? 
Why,  that  he  had  read  of  a  government  of  women,  "  ein 
Weiberstaat,"  in  Africa,  where  they  killed  all  the  men  in 
the  first  place,  and  then  all  the  male  children,  and  finally 
destined  all  that  should  be  bom  to  the  same  fate.  And 
what  do  you  think  your  mother  said  when  I  told  her  of 
these  atrocities  ?  Even  this  :  "  That  shows  what  bad 
creatures  the  men  must  have  been."  And  that 's  all  I  get 
when  trying  to  enlighten  her  upon  the  wickedness  of  her 
sex. 

And  I  'm  just  getting  through  with  Guizot's  four  vol- 
umes, too.  Oh,  a  very  magnificent,  calm,  and  beautiful 
course  of  lectures  !  You  must  read  them.  It 's  the  be?t 
French  history,  so  far  as  it  goes. 


2l8  Letters. 


To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows. 

Sheffield,  March  6,  1850. 
.  .  .  To  my  poor  apprehension  this  is  an  awful  crisis, 
especially  if  pushed  in  the  way  the  Northern  doctrinaires 
desire.  I  feel  it  so  from  what  I  saw  of  Southern  feeling 
in  Washington  the  winter  I  passed  there.  I  fear  dis- 
union, and  no  mortal  line  can  sound  the  depth  of  that 
calamity.  I  sometimes  think  that  it  would  be  well  if  we 
could  wear  around  this  last,  terrible,  black  headland  by 
sounding,  and  trimming  sails,  rather  than  attempt  to  sail 
by  compass  and  quadrant.  Do  not  mistake  my  figure. 
I  am  no  moral  trimmer,  and  that  you  know.  Conscience 
must  be  obeyed.  But  conscience  does  not  forbid  that 
we  should  treat  the  Southern  people  with  great  consid- 
eration. What  we  must  do,  we  may  do  in  the  spirit  of 
love,  and  not  of  wrath  or  scorn.  Oh,  what  a  mystery  of 
Providence,  that  this  terrible  burden  —  I  had  almost 
said  millstone  —  should  ever  have  been  hung  around  the 
neck  of  this  Confederation  ! 

To  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

Sheffield,  /ufie  7, 1850. 

My  Dear  Sir,  —  You  should  n't  have  lived  in  New 
York,  and  you  should  n't  have  been  master  of  the  French 
language,  and  you  should  n't  have  been  Mr.  Bryant,  and, 
in  fact,  you  should  n't  have  been  at  all,  if  you  expected 
to  escape  all  sorts  of  trouble  in  this  world  !  Since  all 
these  conditions  pertain  to  you,  see  the  inference,  which, 
stated  in  the  most  skilfully  inoffensive  way  I  am  able, 
stands  or  runs  thus  :  — 

[Here  followed  a  request  that  Mr.  Bryant  would  make 


Letters.  219 

some  inquiries  concerning  a  French  teacher  who  had 
applied,  and  the  letter  continued  :] 

Now,  in  fine,  if  you  don't  see  that  all  this  letter  is 
strictly  logical,  —  an  inference  from  the  premises  at  the 
beginning,  —  I  am  sorry  for  you ;  and  if  you  do  see  it, 
I  am  sorry  for  you.     So  you  are  pitied  at  any  rate. 

The  19th  draws  nigh.  If  any  of  the  Club  are  with 
you  and  Mrs.  Bryant  in  coming  up,  do  not  any  of 
you  be  so  deluded  as  to  listen  to  any  invitation  to  dine 
at  Kent,  but  come  right  along,  hollow  and  merry,  and — 
I  don't  say  I  promise  you  a  dinner,  but  what  will  suffice 
for  natur,  anyhow.  Art,  to  be  sure,  is  out  of  the  question, 
as  it  is  when  I  subscribe  myself,  and  ourselves,  to  you 
and  Mrs.  Bryant,  with  affectionate  regard, 

Yours  truly, 

Orville  Dewey, 

To  Rev.    William    Ware. 

Sheffield,  Oct.  13,  1850. 
"  That  's  what  I  will,"  I  said,  as  I  took  up  your  let- 
ter just  now,  to  read  it  again,  thinking  you  had  de- 
sired me  to  write  immediately.  "  How  affectionate  ! " 
thinks  I  to  myself;  "that  must  have  been  a  good  letter 
that  I  wrote  him  last ;  I  really  think  some  of  my  let- 
ters must  be  pretty  good  ones,  after  all;  I  hate  con- 
ceit, —  I  really  believe  my  tendency  is  the  other  way,  — 
but,  hang  it !  who  knows  but  I  may  turn  out,  upon  my- 
self, a  fine  letter  after  all?  But  at  any  rate  Ware  loves 
me,  does  n't  he  ?  He  wants  me  to  write  a  few  lines,  at 
least,  very  soon.  It 's  evident  he  would  be  pleased  to 
have  me,  — '  pleased  '  ?  as  the  Laird  of  EUangowan 
said  of  the  king's  commission,  —  '  good  honest  gentle- 


220  Letters. 

man,  he  can't  be  more  pleased  than  I  am  ! '"  But  oh  ! 
the  slips  of  those  who  are  shodden  with  vanity  !  I  read 
on,  thinking  it  was  a  nice  letter  of  yours,  —  feeling 
something  startled,  to  be  sure,  at  the  compellation,  as  if 

you  were  mesmerise.,  and  had  got  an  insight  ( calls 

me  bambino  half  of  the  time)  —  looking  at  your  mood 
reverential  as  a  droll  jest, — vexed  at  first,  but  then 
reconciled,  about  the  book  and  the  lecturing,  —  charmed 
and  grateful  beyond  measure  at  what  you  say  about  your 
health,  —  when  !  at  last ! !  I  fell  upon  your  request : 
"  Now  give  me  one  brief  epistle  between  this  and  our 
seeing  you."  ! ! !  Between  !  what  a  word  !  what  a  hiatus  ! 
what  a  gulf !  Down  into  it  tumbled  pride,  vanity,  pleas- 
ure, everything.  Well,  great  occasions  call  out  virtue. 
As  I  emerged,  as  I  came  up,  I  came  up  a  hero ;  the 
vanities  of  this  world  were  all  struck  off  from  me  in  my 
fall,  and  I  came  up  a  hero ;  for  I  determined  I  would 
write  to  you  immediately.  There  !  beat  that  if  you_can  ! 
I  give  you  a  chance, — one  chance,  —  I  don't  ask  you 
to  write  at  all. 

What  is  it  you  call  my  study  now-a-days,  —  "  terrible 
moral  metaphysics"?  You  may  well  say  "weighed 
down  "  with  them.  I  was  never  in  my  life  before  quite 
so  modest  as  I  am  now.  Not  that  I  have  n't  enough  to 
say,  and  all  my  faculties  leap  to  the  task;  but  all  the 
while  there  looms  up  before  me  an  ideal  of  what  such  a 
course  of  lectures  might  be,  that  I  fear  I  shall  never 
reach  up  to,  no,  nor  one  twentieth  part  of  the  way 
to  it.  .  .  . 


Letters.  221 


To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield, /flM,  25, 1851. 

My  Dear  Friend, — You  ivorCt  come,  and  I  will 
wTite  to  you  !  See  the  difference.  See  how  I  return 
good  for  evil ! 

I  say,  you  won't  come ;  for  I  have  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Curtis,  from  which  it  is  evident  she  will  not,  and  so  I 
suppose  that  laudable  conspiracy  falls  to  the  ground. 
However,  we  shall  sort  d'  look  for  you  all  the  week. 
But  you  won't  come.  I  know  it  to  my  fingers'  ends. 
Cradled  in  luxury,  wrapped  in  comfort,  enervated 
by  city  indulgences,  sophisticated  by  fashionable  so- 
ciety—  well,  I  won't  finish  the  essay;  but  you  won't 
come. 

Ah  !  speaking  of  fashionable  society,  —  that  reminds 
me,  —  you  ask  a  question,  and  say,  "Answer  me." 
Well,  then,  —  society  we  must  have ;  and  all  the  ques- 
tion I  should  have  to  ask  about  it  would  be  whether  it 
pleased  me,  —  not  whether  everybody  in  it  pleased  me, 
but  whether  its  general  tone  did  not  offend  me,  and 
then,  whether  I  could  find  persons  in  it  with  whose 
minds  I  could  have  grateful  and  good  intercourse.  If  I 
could,  I  don't  think  the  word  "fashion,"  or  the  word 
"world,"  would  scare  me.  As  to  the  time  given  to  it, 
and  the  time  to  be  reserved  for  weightier  matters,  that 
is,  to  be  sure,  very  material.  But  the  chief  thing  is  a 
reigning  spirit  in  our  life,  gained  from  communion  with 
the  highest  thoughts  and  themes,  which  consecrates  all 
time,  and  subordinates  all  events  and  circumstances,  and 
hallows  all  intercourse,  and  turns  the  dust  of  life  into 
golden  treasures. 

I  have  no  thoughts  of  going  to  New  York  or  anywhere 


222  Letters. 

else  at  present.  I  finished  my  eighth  lecture  yesterday. 
This  is  my  poor  service  to  the  world  in  these  days,  — 
since  you  insist  that  I  have  relations  to  the  world. 

I  reciprocate  Mr.  Lane's  kind  wishes,  and  am,  as 
ever, 

Yours,  with  no  danger  of  forgetting, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.    William    Ware. 

Sheffield, yir</y  3, 1851. 

Dear  Gwyllym  (is  n't  that  Welsh  for  William  ?)  —  I 
don't  know  whether  your  letter  with  nothing  in  it,  and 
the  postage  paid  on  the  contents,  is  on  the  way  to  me ; 
but  I  am  writing  to  all  my  friends,  to  celebrate  the  Inde- 
pendence-day of  friendship  and  to  help  the  revenue,  and 
not  to  write  to  you  would  be  lese-majesty  to  love  and 
law. 

Is  it  not  a  distinct  mark  higher  up  on  the  scale  of  civ- 
ilization, —  this  cheap  postage  ?  The  easier  transmission 
of  produce  is  accounted  such  a  mark,  —  much  more  the 
easier  transmission  of  thought. 

Transmission,  indeed  !  When  I  had  got  so  far,  I  was 
called  away  to  direct  Mr.  P.  about  the  sink.  And  do 
you  know  what  directing  a  man  is,  in  the  country? 
Why,  it  is  to  do  half  the  work  yourself,  and  to  take  all 
the  responsibility.  And,  in  consequence  of  Mr.  P., 
you  won't  get  a  bit  better  letter  than  you  proposed  to 
send. 

Where  's  your  book?  What  are  you  doing?  What  do 
you  think  of  your  Miss  Martineau  now  ?  Is  n't  the  Seven 
Gables  a  subtile  matter,  both  in  thought  and  style  ? 

Haven't  I  said  the  truth  about  the  much  preaching? 
Some   of  the  clergy,  I   perceive,   say  with   heat   that 


Letters.  223 

preaching  is  not  cold   and   dull.     Better  let   the  laity 
testify. 

There  is  Mr.  P.  again. 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows. 

Washington,  Dec.  11,  185 1. 
.  .  .  Have  you  seen  the  "  great  Hungarian  "  ?  Great 
indeed,  and  in  a  way  we  seem  not  to  have  thought  of. 
Is  n't  there  a  story  somewhere  of  a  man  uncaging,  as 
he  thought,  a  spaniel,  and  finding  it  to  be  a  lion  ?  We 
thought  we  had  released  and  were  bringing  over  a  sim- 
ple, harmless,  inoffensive,  heart-broken  emigrant,  who 
would  be  glad  to  settle,  and  find  rest,  and  behold,  we 
have  upon  our  hands  a  world-disturbing  propagandist,  a 
loud  pleader  for  justice  and  freedom,  who  does  not  want 
to  settle,  but  to  fight ;  who  will  not  rest  upon  his  coun- 
try's wrongs,  nor  let  anybody  else  if  he  can  help  it ;  who 
does  not  care  for  processions  nor  entertainments,  but 
wants  help.  Kossuth  has  doubtless  made  a  great  mis- 
take in  taking  his  position  here ;  it  is  the  mistake  of  a 
word-maker  and  of  a  relier  on  words,  and  he  has  not 
mended  the  matter  by  defining.  But  I  declare  he  is 
infinitely  more  respectable  in  my  eyes  than  if  he  had 
come  in  the  character  in  which  we  expected  him,  —  as 
the  protege  and  beneficiary  of  our  people,  who  was  to 
settle  down  among  us  and  be  comfortable. 

To  Rev.    William    Ware. 

Washington,  y^w.  3,  1852. 
...  I   MUST  fool  a  little,  else  I  shan't   know   I  am 
writing  to  you.     And  really  I  must  break  out  somewhere, 


224  Letters. 

life  is  such  a  solemn  abstraction  in  Washington  to  a 
clergyman.  What  has  he  to  do,  but  what 's  solemn  ? 
The  gayety  passes  him  by;  the  poUtics  pass  him  by. 
Nobody  wants  him  ;  nobody  holds  him  by  the  button 
but  some  desperate,  dilapidated  philanthropist.  People 
say,  while  turning  a  comer,  "  How  do  you  do,  Doctor?  " 
which  is  very  much  as  if  they  said,  "  How  do  you  do. 
Abstraction?  "  I  live  in  a  "  lone  conspicuity,"  preach  in 
a  vacuum,  and  call,  with  much  ado,  to  find  nobody. 
"  What  doest  thou  here,  Elijah  ?  "  one  might  say  to  a 
prophet  in  this  wilderness. 

What  a  curious  fellow  you  are  !  calm  as  a  philosopher, 
usually,  wise  as  a  judge,  possessed  in  full  measure  of  the 
very  Ware  moderation  and  wis(^oni,  and  yet  every  now 
and  then  taking  some  tremendous  lurch  —  against  Eng- 
land or  for  Kossuth  !  I  go  far  enough,  —  go  a  good  way, 
please  to  observe,  —  but  to  go  to  war,  that  would  I  not,  if 
I  could  help  it.  Fighting  won't  prepare  men  for  voting. 
Peaceful  progress,  I  believe,  is  the  only  thing  that  can 
carry  on  the  world  to  a  fitness  for  self-government.  I 
have  no  idea  that  the  Hungarians  are  fit  for  it.  See 
what  France  has  done  with  her  free  constitution  !  Oh  ! 
was  there  ever  such  a  solemn  farce,  before  Heaven,  as 
that  voting,  —  those  congratulations  to  the  Usurper- 
President,  and  his  replies  ? 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows. 

Washington,  March  7,  1852. 

...  I  HAVE  seen  a  good  deal  of  Ole  Bull  here  within 

a  week  or  two.     I  admire  his  grand  and  simple,  reverent 

and  affectionate  Norwegian  nature  very  much.     He  has 

come  out  here  now  with  views  connected  with  the  wel- 


Letters.  225 

fare  of  his  countrymen ;  I  do  not  yet  precisely  under- 
stand them.  Is  it  not  remarkable  that  he  and  Jenny 
Lind  should  have  tliis  noble  nationality  so  beating  at 
their  very  hearts  ? 

To  the  Same. 

I  don't  see  but  you  must  insert  these  articles  in  the 
"  Inquirer  "  as  "  Communications."  Some  of  them  will 
have  things  in  them  that  cannot  possibly  be  delivered  as 
W^gotisms.  Don't  be  stiff  about  the  matter.  I  tell  you 
there  is  no  other  way ;  and  indeed  I  think  it  no  harm, 
but  an  advantage,  to  diversify  the  form,  and  leave  out 
the  solemn  and  juridical  Wego  sometimes,  for  the  more 
sprightly  and  '•'  sniptious  "  Ego. 

To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Washington,  May,  1852. 

Dearest  Molly,  —  To  be  sure,  how  could  you  ?  And, 
indeed,  what  did  you  for?  Oh  !  for  little  K.'s  sake. 
Well,  anything  for  little  K.'s  sake.  Indeed,  it 's  the  duty 
of  parents  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  their  children.  It 's 
the  final  cause  of  parents  to  mind  the  children.  Poor 
little  puss  !  We  shall  feel  relieved  when  we  hear  she  is 
in  New  York,  and  safe  under  the  sisterly  wing.  I  am 
afraid  she  is  getting  too  big  for  nestling.  How  I  want 
to  see  the  good  little  comfort !  Is  she  litde  ?  Tell  us 
how  she  looks  and  does. 

Yesterday,  beside  preaching  a  sermon  more  than  half 
new,  and  attending  a  funeral  (out  of  the  society),  I  read 
skimmingly  more  than  half  Nichol's  "  Architecture  of  the 
Heavens."  I  laid  aside  the  book  overwhelmed.  What 
shall  we   do?     What  shall  we   think?    Far  from   our 

IS 


226  Letters. 

Milky  Way,  —  there  they  lie,  other  universes,  —  nebulae 
resolved  by  Rosse's  telescope  into  stars,  starry  realms, 
numerous,  seemingly  innumerable,  and  as  vast  as  our  sys- 
tem ;  and  yet  from  some  of  them  it  takes  the  light  thirty 
—  sixty  thousand  years  to  come  to  us  :  nay,  twenty  mil- 
lions, Nichol  suggests,  I  know  not  on  what  grounds.  And 
yet  in  the  minutest  details  such  perfection  !  A  million 
of  perfectly  formed  creatures  in  a  drop  of  water  !  I  do 
not  doubt  that  it  is  this  overwhelming  immensity  of  things 
that  leads  some  minds  to  find  a  sort  of  relief,  as  it  were, 
in  the  idea  of  an  Infinite  Impersonal  Force  working  in 
all  things.  But  it  is  a  child's  thought.  Nay,  does  not 
the  very  fact  that  my  mind  can  take  in  so  vast  a  range  of 
things  lead  me  better  to  conceive  of  what  the  Infinite 
Mind  can  do  ?  An  ant's  mind,  if  it  had  one,  might  find 
it  just  as  hard  to  conceive  of  me. 

With  love  to  you  two  miserable  creatures,  away  from 
your  parents, 

Thine  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

[Undated.] 
What  have  I  not  written  to  you  about,  you  cross 
thing?  Oh  !  Kossuth.  Well,  then,  here  is  an  immensely 
interesting  person,  whom  we  invited  over  here  to  settle, 
and  who  is  much  more  likely  to  ?^«settle  us.  How  far 
would  you  have  him  unsettle  us?  To  the  extent  of  car- 
rying us  into  a  war  with  Russia,  or  of  banding  us,  with  all 
liberal  governments,  in  a  war  with  the  despotic  govern- 
ments, so  that  Europe  should  be  turned  into  a  caldron 
of  blood  for  years  to  come,  millions  of  people  sacrificed, 


Letters.  227 

unutterable  miseries  inflicted,  the  present  frame  of  society 
torn  in  pieces ;  and,  when  all  is  done,  the  human  race  no 
better  off,  —  worse  off?  You  say,  no.  Well,  anything 
short  of  that  I  am  willing  Kossuth  should  accomplish. 
Any  expression  of  opinion  that  he  can  get  here,  from  the 
people  or  the  government,  asserting  the  rights  of  nations 
and  the  wrong  of  oppression,  let  him  have,  —  let  all  the 
world  have  it.  Moral  influence,  gradually  changing  the 
world,  is  what  /want.  But  Kossuth  and  the  Liberals  of 
Europe  want  to  bring  on  that  great  war  of  opinion,  which, 
I  fear,  will  come  only  too  soon.  I  fear  that  Kossuth  has 
fairly  broached  the  question  of  intervention  here,  and 
that  in  two  years  it  will  enter  the  ballot  box.  I  fear  these 
tendencies  to  universal  overthrow  that  are  now  revealing 
themselves  all  over  the  civilized  world. 

Kossuth  is  a  man  all  enthusiasm  and  eloquence,  but 
not  a  man,  I  judge,  of  deep  practical  sagacity.  A  sort 
of  Hamlet,  he  seems  to  me,  —  graceful,  delicate,  thought- 
ful, meditative,  moral,  noble-minded ;  and  I  should  not 
wonder  if  he  was  now  feeling  something  of  Hamlet's 
burden  :  — 

"  The  time  is  out  of  joint :  oh,  cursed  spite. 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right  I  " 

A  lady,  who  saw  him  two  days  ago,  told  me  that  so 
sad  a  face  she  never  saw ;  it  haunted  her. 

It  was  on  his  return  to  his  Berkshire  home, 
after  this  winter  in  Washington,  that  the  next 
merry  little  letter,  describing  his  renewed  ac- 
quaintance with  his  country  neighbors,  was  sent 
to  me.  The  custom  of  ringing  the  church  bell  at 
•noon  and  at  nine  in  the  evening  had  not  then 
been  relinquished,  although  it  has  since  died  out. 


228  Letters. 


To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Sheffield,  _/«/)/  23,  1852. 

Dear  Molly,  —  Dr.  K.  and  H.  called  upon  us  the 
very  evening  after  we  arrived  !  Mrs.  K,  as  usual.  Mrs.  B. 
is  on  a  visit  to  her  friends ;  the  children  with  their  grand- 
mother. .  .  .  Mr.  D.  doestft  raise  any  tobacco  this 
summer.  I  saw  Mr.  P.  lying  flat  on  his  back  yesterday, 
—  not  floored,  however,  but  high  and  dry  on  Mr.  Mcln- 
tyre's  counter.  Mr.  M.  has  succeeded  Doten,  Root,  and 
Mansfield.  These  three  gentlemen  have  all  flung  them- 
selves upon  the  paper-mill,  hardly  able  to  supply  the 
Sheffield  authors.  Mr.  Austin  continues  to  announce 
the  solemn  procession  of  the  hours.  Mr.  Swift  is  build- 
ing an  observatory  to  see  'em  as  they  pass.  There  are 
thoughts  of  engaging  me  to  note  'em  down,  as  I  have 
nothing  else  to  do. 

I  am  particularly  at  leisure,  having  demitted  all  care 
of  the  farm  to  Mr.  Charles,  and  committed  all  the  income 
thereof  to  him,  down  to  the  smallest  hen's-egg. 

Your  mother  is  always  doing  something,  and  always 
growing  handsomer  and  lovelier,  so  that  I  told  her  yes- 
terday I  should  certainly  call  her  a  sa-int,  if  she  was  n't 
always  a  do-int ! 

I  have  nothing  to  tell  of  myself;  no  stitches  or  aches 
to  commemorate,  being  quite  free  and  whole  in  soul  and 
body,  and,  freely  and  wholly 

Your  loving  father, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  229 


To  Rev.  Henry   IV.  Bellows. 

Sheftie-lb, /uly  24,  1852. 

My  Dear  Bellows,  —  Amidst  all  this  lovely  quiet,  and 
the  beautiful  outlooks  on  every  side  to  the  horizon,  my 
thoughts  seem  ever  to  mingle  with  the  universe ;  they 
bear  me  beyond  the  horizon  of  life,  and  your  reflections, 
therefore,  fall  as  a  touching  strain  upon  the  tenor  of 
mine.  Experience,  life,  man,  seem  to  me  ever  higher 
and  more  awful ;  and  though  there  is  constantly  inter- 
vening the  crushing  thought  of  what  a  poor  thing  I  am, 
and  my  life  is,  and  I  am  sometimes  disheartened  and 
tempted  to  be  reckless,  and  to  say,  "  It 's  no  matter  what 
this  ephemeral  being,  this  passing  dust  and  wind,  shall 
come  to,"  —  yet  ever,  like  the  little  eddying  whirlwinds 
that  I  see  in  the  street  before  me,  this  dusty  breath  of 
life  struggles  upward.  I  am  very  sad  and  glorious  by 
turns ;  and  sometimes,  when  mortality  is  heavy  and  hope 
is  weak,  I  take  refuge  in  simple  resignation,  and  say : 
"  Thou  Infinite  Goodness  !  I  can  desire  nothing  better 
than  that  thy  will  be  done.  But  oh  !  give  me  to  live 
forever  !  —  eternal  rises  that  prayer.  Give  me  to  look 
upon  thy  glory  and  thy  glorious  creatures  forever  ! " 
What  an  awful  anomaly  in  our  being  were  it,  if  that 
prayer  were  to  be  denied  !  And  what  would  the  mem- 
ory of  friends  be,  so  sweet  and  solemn  now,  —  what 
would  it  be,  but  as  the  taper  which  the  angel  of  death 
extinguishes  in  this  earthly  quagmire  ? 

After  you  went  away,  I  read  more  carefully  the  splen- 
did article  on  the  "  Ethics  of  Christendom  ;  "  ^  and  I  con- 
fess that  my  whole  moral  being  shrinks  from  the  position 

1  From  the  "  Westminster  Review,"  vol.  Ivii.  p.  182,  or,  in 
the  American  edition,  p.  98. 


230  Letters. 

of  the  writer  (which  brings  down  the  majesty  of  the  Gos- 
pel almost  to  the  level  of  Millerism),  that  Jesus  supposed 
the  end  of  the  world  to  be  at  hand,  and  that  he  should 
come  in  the  clouds  of  heaven,  and  be  seated  with  his 
disciples  on  airy  thrones,  to  judge  the  nations.  No ;  the 
false  double  ethics  of  the  pulpit,  which  I  have  labored, 
though  less  successfully,  all  my  life  to  expose,  has  its 
origin,  I  believe,  in  later  superstition, .  and  not  in  the 
teachings  of  Christ.  The  passages  referred  to  by  the 
writer,  I  conceive  to  be  more  imaginative,  and  less  for- 
malistic  and  logical,  than  he  supposes. 

'To  the  Same. 

Washington,  Dec.  28,  1852. 

My  Dear  Bellows,  —  I  will  wish  you  all  a  happy 
New  York,  (ahem  !  you  see  how  naturally  and  affec- 
tionately my  pen  turns  out  the  old  beloved  name  !)  —  a 
happy  New  Year.  After  all,  it  isn't  so  bad;  a  happy 
New  Year  and  a  happy  New  Y'ork  must  be  very  near 
neighbors  with  you.  I  sometimes  wish  they  could  have 
continued  to  be  so  with  me,  for  those  I  have  learnt  to 
live  with  most  easily  and  happily  are  generally  in  New 
York.  Our  beloved  artists,  the  goodly  Club,  were  a  host 
to  me  by  themselves.  I  wish  I  could  be  a  host  to  them 
sometimes. 

Well,  heigho  !  (pretty  ejaculation  to  come  into  a 
New  Year's  greeting  —  but  they  come  everywhere  !) 
Heigho  !  I  say  submissively  —  things  meet  and  match 
us,  perhaps,  better  than  we  mean.  I  am  not  a  clergyccidxi 
—  perhaps  was  never  meant  for  one.  I  question  our 
position  more  and  more.  We  are  not  fairly  thrown  into 
the  field  of  life.     We  do  not  fairly  take  the  free  and 


Letters.  231 

unobstructed  pressure  of  all  surrounding  society.  We 
are  hedged  around  with  artificial  barriers,  built  up  by 
superstitious  reverence  and  false  respect.  We  are  cased 
in  peculiarity.  We  meet  and  mingle  with  trouble  and 
sorrow,  —  enough  of  them,  too  much,  —  but  our  treat- 
ment of  them  gets  hackneyed,  worn,  weary,  and  reluctant. 
We  grapple  with  the  world's  strife  and  trial,  but  it  is 
in  armor.  Our  excision  from  the  world's  pleasure  and 
free  intercourse,  I  doubt,  is  not  good  for  us.  We  are  a 
sort  of  moral  eunuchs. 

To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Washington,  June  19,  1853. 
Though  it  is  very  hot, 
Though  bladed  corn  faint  in  the  noontide  ray, 
And  thermometers  stand  at  ninety-three, 
And  fingers  feel  like  sticks  of  sealing-wax, 
Yet  I  will  write  thee. 

This  evening  I  saw  Professor  Henry,  who  said  he  saw 
you  at  the  Century  Club  last  Wednesday  evening ;  that 
he  did  not  speak  to  you,  but  that  you  seemed  to  be  en- 
joying yourself.  I  felt  like  shaking  hands  with  him  on 
the  occasion,  but  restrained  myself.  But  where  are  you, 
child,  this  blessed  minute?  ...  I  would  have  you  to 
know  that  it  is  a  merit  to  write  to  somebody  who  is  no- 
where. Why  in  thunder  don't  you  write  to  mel  If  I 
were  nobody,  I  am  somewhere.  I  hope  you  are  enjoying 
yourself,  but  I  can't  think  you  can,  conscientiously,  with- 
out telling  me  of  it. 

My  love  to  the  Bryants.  I  hope  it  nnay  greet  the 
Grand  Panjandrum  himself.  Tell  Mrs.  C.  I  should  write 
to  her,  but  I  have  too  much  regard  for  her  to  think  of 


232^  Letters. 

such  a  thing  with  the  themometer  at  93°,  and  that  it  is 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  cool  at  any  time,  when  I 
think  of  her. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  Sept.  2,  1853. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  Do  you  remember  when  we 
were  walking  once  in  Weston,  that  we  saw  the  carpenter 
putting  sheets  of  tarred  paper  under  the  clapboarding  of 
a  house?  I  want  you  to  ask  your  father  if  he  thinks 
that  a  good  plan ;  if  he  knows  of  any  ill  effect,  as,  for 
instance,  there  being  a  smell  of  tar  about  the  house,  or 
the  tar's  running  down  between  the  clapboards.  If  he 
thinks  well  of  it  (that  is  question  first)  ;  question  sec- 
ond is,  What  kind  of  paper  is  used  ?  and  question  third, 
Is  it  simply  boiled  tar  into  which  the  paper  is  dipped  ? 
I  state  precisement,  and  number  the  queries,  because 
nobody  ever  yet  answered  all  the  questions  of  a  letter.  I 
hope  in  your  reply  you  will  achieve  a  distinction  that 
will  send  down  your  name  to  future  times.  .  .  . 

To  the  Same. 

Sept.  9,  1853. 

You  have  achieved  immortal  honor;  the  answers, 
Numbers  i,  2,  and  3,  are  most  satisfactory.  I  have 
thoughts  of  sending  your  letter  to  the  Crystal  Palace. 
I  am  much  obliged  to  your  father,  and  I  will  avail  my- 
self of  his  kindness,  if  I  should  find  it  necessary,  next 
year,  when  I  may  be  building  an  addition  here. 

I  am  scny  things  don't  go  smoothly  with ;  but  I 

guess  nothing  ever  did  go  on  without  some  hitches,  that 
is,  on  this  earth.  It  is  curious,  by  the  bye,  how  we  go 
on  blindly,  imagining  that  things  go  smoothly  with  many 


Letters.  233 

people  around  nis,  —  with  some  at  least,  —  with  some 
Wellington,  or  Webster,  or  Astor,  when  the  truth  is, 
they  never  do  with  anybody.  To  take  our  inevita- 
ble part  with  imperfection,  in  ourselves,  in  others,  in 
things,  —  to  take  our  part,  I  say,  in  this  discipline  of 
imperfection,  without  surprise  or  impatience  or  dis- 
couragement, as  a  part  of  the  fixed  order  of  things,  and 
no  more  to  be  wondered  at  or  quarrelled  with  than 
drought  or  frost  or  flood,  —  this  is  a  wisdom  beyond 
the  most  of  us,  farther  off  from  us,  I  believe,  than  any 
other.  Ahem  !  when  you  told  me  of  those  rocks  in  the 
foundation  of  the  house,  you  did  not  expect  this  "  ser- 
mon in  stones."  .  .  . 

To   William  Cullen  Bryant. 

Sheffield,  May  13,  1854. 

Dear  Editor,  —  Are  we. to  have  fastened  upon  us 
this  nuisance  that  is  spreading  itself  among  all  the  news- 
papers, —  I  mean  the  abominable  smell  caused  by  the 
sizing  or  something  else  in  the  manufacture  ?  For  a  long 
time  it  was  the  "Christian  Register"  alone  that  had  it, 
and  I  used  to  tlirow  it  out  of  the  window  to  air.  Now 
I  perceive  the  same  thing  in  other  papers,  and  at  length 
it  has  reached  the  "  Post."  Somebody  is  manufactur- 
ing a  villanous  article-  for  the  paper-makers  !  (I  state 
the  fact  with  an  awful  and  portentous  generality.)  But 
do  you  not  perceive  what  the  nuisance  is?  It  is  a  stink,, 
sir.  I  am  obliged  to  sit  on  the  windward  side  of  the 
paper  while  I  read  its  interesting  contents,  and  to  wash 
my  hands  afterwards  —  immediately. 

But,  to  change  the  subject,  —  yes,  toto  ccbIo,  —  for  I 
turn  to  something  as  fragrant  as  a  bed  of  roses,  —  will 


234  Letters. 

not  you  and  Mrs.  Bryant  come  to  see  us  in  June  ?  Do. 
It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  sat  on  a  green  bank  with 
you,  or  anywhere  else.  I  want  some  of  your  company, 
and  talk,  and  wisdom.  The  first  Lowell  Lecture  I  wrote 
was  after  a  talk  with  you  here,  three  or  four  years  ago. 
Come,  I  pray,  and  give  me  an  impulse  for  another 
course.  Bring  JuHa,  too.  I  will  give  her  my  little 
green  room. 

I  shall  be  down  in  New  York  on  business  a  fortnight 
hence,  and  shall  see  you,  and  see  if  we  can't  fix  upon  a 
time.  ^ 

With  all  our  loves  to  you  all, 

Yours  as  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

Mr.  Dewey's  father  died  at  the  very  beginning 
of  his  son's  career,  in  1821,  and  early  in  1855  he 
lost  also  his  mother  from  her  honored  place  at 
his  fireside.  He  was,  nevertheless,  obliged  to  leave 
home  in  March,  to  fulfil  an  engagement  made  the 
previous  autumn  to  lecture  in  Charleston,  S.  C 

To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Charleston,  March  16,  1855. 
I  HAVE  been  trying  four  hours  to  sleep.  No  dervise 
ever  turned  round  more  times  at  a  bout,  than  I  have 
turned  over  in  these  four  hours.  I  dined  out  to-day, 
at  Judge  King's,  and  afterwards  we  went  to  the  cele- 
brated Club ;  and,  whether  it  is  that  I  was  seven  consecu- 
tive hours  in  company,  or  that  I  drank  a  cup  of  coffee, — 

The  reason  why,  I  cannot  tell, 
But  this  I  know  full  well, 


Letters.  235 

that  here  I  am,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  venting 
my  rage  on  you. 

It  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  the  generous  and 
delighted  interest  which  the  G.'s  and  D.'s,  and  indeed 
many  more,  take  in  the  phenomenon  of  the  lectures. 
The  truth  is,  that  their  attention  to  the  matter,  and  the 
intelligence  of  the  people,  and  the  merits  of  the  lecturer, 
must  be  combined  to  account  for  such  an  unprecedented 
and  beautiful  audience,  —  larger,  and  much  more  select, 
they  say,  than  even  Thackeray's.  I  '11  send  you  a  news- 
paper slip  or  two,  if  I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  them, 
upon  the  last  lecture,  which,  assembled  (the  audience,  I 
mean),  under  a  clouded  sky,  and  in  face  of  a  threatening 
tliunder-gust,  was  a  greater  wonder,  some  one  said,  than 
any  I  undertook  to  explain. 

Bah  !  what  stuff  to  write  !  But  all  this  is  such  an 
agreeable  surprise  to  me,  and  will,  I  think,  give  me  so 
much  better  a  reward  for  this  weary  journey  and  absence 
than  I  expected,  that  you  must  sympathize  what  you 
can  with  my  dotage. 

As  to  the  "  Corruptions  of  Christianity,"  dear,  if  you 
don't  find  enough  of  them  about  you,  —  and  you  may 
not,  as  you  live  with  your  mother  mostly,  —  you  will 
find  them  in  the  library  somewhere.  There  were,  I 
think,  two  editions,  one  in  one  volume,  and  another  in 
two.    There  are  a  hundred  in  the  world. 

The  Club  mentioned  in  this  letter  was  that  of 
which  my  father  wrote  in  his  Reminiscences :  — 

"  This  Charleston  Club,  then,  I  think,  forty  years  old, 
was  one  of  the  most  remarkable,  and  in  some  respects 


236  >         Letters. 

the  most  improving,  that  I  have  ever  known.  An  essay 
was  read  at  every  meeting,  and  made  the  subject  of  dis- 
cussion. One  evening  at  Dr.  Gihnan's  was  read  for 
the  essay  a  eulogy  upon  Napoleon  III.  It  was  A\Titten 
con  amore,  and  was  really  quite  sentimental  in  its  admira- 
tion, —  going  back  to  his  very  boyhood,  his  love  of  his 
mother,  and  what  not.  I  could  not  help  touching  the 
elbow  of  the  gentleman  sitting  next  me  and  saying, 
'Aren't  we  a  pretty  set  of  fellows  to  be  hstening  to 
such  stuff  as  this?'  He  showed  that  he  thought  as  I 
did.  When  the  reading  was  finished,  Judge  King,  who 
presided,  turned  to  me  and  asked  for  my  opinion  of  the 
essay.  I  was  *  considerably  struck  up,'  to  be  the  first 
person  asked,  and  confessed  to  some  embarrassment. 
I  was  a  stranger  among  them,  I  said,  and  did  not  know 
but  my  views  might  differ  entirely  from  theirs.  I  was 
not  accustomed  to  think  myself  illiberal,  or  behind  the 
progress  of  opinion,  and  I  knew  that  this  man,  Louis 
Napoleon,  had  his  admirers,  and  perhaps  an  increasing 
number  of  them ;  but  if  I  must  speak,  —  and  then  I 
blurted  it  out,  —  I  must  say  that  it  was  with  inward 
wrath  and  indignation  that  I  had  listened  to  the  essay, 
from  beginning  to  end.  There  was  a  marked  sensation 
all  round  the  circle ;  but  I  defended  my  opinion,  and,  to 
my  astonishment,  all  but  two  agreed  with  me." 

The  following  winter  he  was  invited  to  repeat 
his  lectures  in  Charleston,  and  passed  some  time 
there,  accompanied  by  his  family.  In  March, 
1856,  he  went  with  Mrs.  Dewey  to  New  Orleans, 
and,  returning  to  Charleston  at  the  end  of  April, 
went  home  in  June. 


Letters.  237 

To  his  Daughters. 

On  Board  the  "  Henry  King,"  on  the 
Alabama  River,  March  18,  1856. 

.  .  .  Such  charming  things  cars  are  !  No  dirt,  —  no 
sp — tt — g,  oh  !  no, — and  such  nice  places  for  sleeping  ! 
Not  a  long,  monotonous,  merely  animal  sleep,  but  intel- 
lectual, a  kind  of  perpetual  solving  of  geometric  prob- 
lems, as,  for  instance,  —  given,  a  human  body ;  how- 
many  angles  is  it  capable  of  forming  in  fifteen  minutes? 
or  how  many  more  than  a  crab  in  the  same  time  ?  And 
then,  no  crying  children,  —  not  a  bit  of  that,  —  singing 
cherubs,  innocently  piping,  —  cheering  the  dull  hours " 
with  dulcet  sounds. 

I  write  in  the  saloon,  on  this  jarring  boat,  that  shakes 
my  hand  and  wits  alike.  We  are  getting  on  very  pros- 
perously. Your  mother  bears  the  journey  well.  This 
boat  is  very  comfortable — for  a  boat;  a  good  large 
state-room,  and  positively  the  neatest  public  table  I  have 
seen  in  all  the  South. 

There  !  that  '11  do,  —  or  must  do.  I  thought  wife 
would  do  the  writing,  but  I  have  "  got  my  leg  over  the 
harrow,"  and  Mause  would  be  as  hard  to  stop. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

New  Orleans,  March  29, 1856. 
Dear  Friend,  —  Yesterday  I  w^as  sixty- two  years  old. 
After  lecturing  in  the  evening  right  earnestly  on  "  The 
Body  and  Soul,"  I  came  home  very  tired,  and  sat  down 
with  a  cigar,  and  passed  an  hour  among  the  scenes  of 
the  olden  time.  I  thought  of  my  father,  when,  a  boy,  I 
used  to  walk  with  him  to  the  fields.    Something  way- 


238  Letters. 

ward  he  was,  perhaps,  in  his  moods,  but  prevailingly 
bright  and  cheerful,  —  fond  of  a  joke,  —  strong  in  sense 
and  purpose,  and  warm  in  affection,  —  steady  to  his 
plans,  but  somewhat  impulsive  and  impatient  in  execu- 
tion. WJiere  is  he  now  ?  How  often  do  I  ask  !  Shall  I 
see  him  again  ?  How  shall  I  find  him  after  thirty,  forty 
years  passed  in  the  unseen  realm  ?  And  of  my  mother 
you  will  not  doubt  I  thought,  and  called  up  the  scenes 
of  her  life  :  in  the  mid-way  of  it,  when  she  was  so 
patient,  and  often  weary  in  the  care  of  u's  all,  and  often 
feeble  in  health ;  and  then  in  the  later  days,  the  declin- 
ing years,  so  tranquil,  so  gentle,  so  loving,  —  a  perfect 
sunshine  of  love  and  gentleness  was  her  presence. 

But  come  we  to  this  St.  Charles  Hotel,  where  we 
have  been  now  for  a  week,  as  removed  as  possible 
from  the  holy  and  quiet  dreamland  of  past  days.  In- 
cessant hubbub  and  hurly-burly  are  the  only  words  that 
can  describe  it,  —  seven  hundred  guests,  one  thousand 
people  under  one  roof.  What  a  larder  !  what  a  cellar  ! 
what  water-tanks,  pah  !  filled  from  the  Mississippi,  clari- 
fied for  the  table  with  alum.  People  that  we  have 
known  cast  up  at  all  corners,  and  many  that  we  have  not 
call  upon  us,  —  good,  kind,  sensible  people.  I  don't 
see  but  New  Orleans  is  to  be  let  into  my  human  world. 

You  see  how  I  blot,  —  I  'm  nervous,  —  I  can't  write 
at  a  marble  table.  Very  well,  however,  and  wife  mainly 
so.  Three  weeks  more  here,  and  then  back  to  Savan- 
nah, where  I  am  to  give  four  lectures.  Then  to 
Charleston,  to  stay  till  about  the  25th  May. 

The   lectures   go   here  very  fairly,  —  six  hundred  to 
hear.     They  call  it  a  very  large  audience  for  lectures  in 
New  Orleans.  .  .  .  With  our  love  to  all  your  household, 
Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  239 


The  Same. 

Sheffield,  Aug.  10,  1856. 

Dear  Friend,  —  My  time  and  thoughts  have  been  a 
good  deal  occupied  of  late  by  the  illness  an4  death  of 
Mr.  Charles  Sedgwick.  The  funeral  was  on  last  Tues- 
day, and  Mr.  Bellows  was  present,  making  the  prayer, 
while  I  read  passages,  and  said  some  words  proper  for 
the  time.  They  were  hearty  words,  you  may  be  sure ; 
for  in  some  admirable  respects  Charles  Sedgwick  has 
scarcely  left  his  equal  in  the  world.  His  sunny  nature 
shone  into  every  crack  and  crevice  around  him,  and  the 
poor  man  and  the  stranger  and  whosoever  was  in  trouble 
or  need  felt  that  he  had  in  him  an  adviser  and  friend. 
The  Irish  were  especially  drawn  to  him,  and  they  made 
request  to  bear  his  body  to  the  grave,  that  is,  to  Stock- 
bridge,  six  miles.  And  partly  they  did  so.  .  .  .  It  was 
a  tremendous  rain-storm,  but  the  procession  was  very 
long. 

But  I  must  turn  away  from  this  sad  affliction  to  us  all, 
—  it  will  be  long  before  I  shall  turn  my  thought  from 
it,  —  for  the  world  is  passing  on ;  it  will  soon  pass  by 
my  grave  and  the  graves  of  us  all.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  this  sweeping  tide  bears  our  thoughts  much  into  the 
coming  world,  —  mine,  I  sometimes  think,  too  much. 

But  we  have  to  fight  our  battle,  perform  our  duties, 
while  one  and  another  drops  around  us ;  and  one  of  the 
things  that  engages  me  just  now,  is  to  prepare  a  dis- 
course to  be  delivered  under  our  Elm  Tree  on  the  21st. 

The  Elm  Tree  Association,  before  which  the 
address  just  alluded  to  was  made,  was  a  Village 
Improvement  Society,  of  which  my  father  was 


240  Letters. 

one  of  the  founders,  and  which  took  its  name  from 
an  immense  tree,  one  of  the  finest  in  Massachu- 
setts, standing  near  the  house  of  his  maternal 
grandfather.  To  smooth  and  adorn  the  ground 
around  the  Great  Elm,  and  make  it  the  scene  of 
a  yearly  summer  festival  for  the  whole  town,  was 
the  first  object  of  the  Society,  extending  after- 
wards to  planting  trees,  grading  walks,  etc., 
through  the  whole  neighborhood  ;  and  it  was  one 
of  the  earlier  impulses  to  that  refinement  of  taste 
which  has  made  of  Sheffield  one  of  the  prettiest 
villages  in  the  country.  With  its  fine  avenue  of 
elms,  planted  nearly  forty  years  ago,  its  gardens 
and  well-shaven  turf,  it  shows  what  care  and  a 
prevailing  love  of  beauty  and  order  will  do  for 
a  place  where  there  is  very  little  wealth.  It  was 
about  this  time  that  my  father  planted  in  an  angle 
of  the  main  street  the  Seven  Pines,  which  now 
make,  as  it  were,  an  evergreen  chapel  to  his 
memory,  and  with  the  proceeds  of  some  lectures 
that  he  gave  in  the  town,  set  out  a  number  of 
deciduous  trees  around  the  Academy,  many  of 
which  are  still  living,  though  the  building  they 
were  intended  to  shade  is  gone. 

The  Elm  Tree  Association,  however,  from  one 
cause  and  another,  was  short-lived ;  but 

"  It  lived  to  light  a  steadier  flame  " 
in   the  Laurel  Hill  Association,  of  Stockbridge, 
which,  taking  the  idea  from  the  Sheffield  plan, 
continues  to  develop  it  in  a  very  beautiful  and 
admirable  manner. 


Letters.  241 

The  address  at  the  gathering  in  1856  was 
chiefly  occupied  with  a  review  of  the  history  of 
the  town,  and  with  the  thoughts  appropriate  to 
the  place  of  meeting ;  and  at  the  close  the  speaker 
took  occasion  to  explain  to  his  townspeople  his 
ideas  upon  the  national  crisis  of  the  day,  and  the 
changed  aspect  that  had  been  given  to  the  slav- 
ery question  by  the  fresh  determination  of  the 
South  to  maintain  the  excellence  of  the  system 
and  to  force  it  upon  the  acceptance  of  the  North 
in  the  new  States  then  forming.  Against  this 
he  made  earnest  and  solemn  protest,  with  a  full 
expression  of  his  opinion  as  to  the  innate  wrong 
to  the  blacks,  and  the  destructive  effects  on  the 
whites,  of  slavery ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  spoke 
with  large  and  kindly  consideration  for  the  South- 
erners. After  doing  justice  to  the  care  and  kind- 
ness of  many  of  them  for  their  slaves,  he  said,  in 
close :  — 

"  I  have  listened  also  to  what  Southern  apologists 
have  said  in  another  view,  —  that  this  burden  of  slavery 
was  none  of  their  choosing ;  that  it  was  entailed  upon 
them ;  that  they  cannot  immediately  emancipate  their 
people ;  that  they  are  not  qualified  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves ;  that  this  state  of  things  must  be  submitted  to  for 
a  while,  till  remedial  laws  and  other  remedial  means 
shall  bring  relief.  And  so  long  as  they  said  that,  I  gave 
them  my  sympathy.  But  when  they  say,  '  Spread  this 
system,  —  spread  it  far  and  wide,'  I  cannot  go  another 
step  with  them.  And  it  is  not  /  that  has  changed,  but 
they.  When  they  say,  'Spread  it,  —  spread  it  over 
i6 


242  Letters. 

Kansas  and  Nebraska,  spread  it  over  the  far  West, 
annex  Mexico,  annex  Cuba,  annex  Central  America, 
make  slavery  a  national  institution,  make  the  compact 
of  the  Constitution  carry  it  into  all  Territories,  cover  it 
with  the  national  aegis,  set  it  up  as  part  of  our  great 
republican  profession,  stamp  on  our  flag  and  our  shield 
and  our  scutcheon  the  emblem  of  human  slavery, '  I 
say,  —  no  —  never — God  forbid  !  " 

It  seems  strange  now  that  so  temperate  and 
candid  a  speech  should  have  raised  a  storm  of 
anger  when  read  in  Charleston.  But  the  sore 
place  was  too  tender  for  even  the  friendliest 
touch,  and  of  all  those  who  had  greeted  him 
there  so  cordially  the  winter  before,  but  two  or 
three  maintained  and  strengthened  their  relations 
with  him  after  this  summer.  It  was  one  of  many- 
trials  to  which  his  breadth  of  view  exposed  him. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D, 

Sheffield,  Aug.  ii,  1856. 

My  Dear  Bellows,  —  I  do  not  complain  of  your  let- 
ter ;  but  what  if  it  should  turn  out  that  I  cannot  agree 
with  you  ?  What  if  my  opinions,  when  properly  under- 
stood, should  displease  many  persons?  Is  it  the  first 
time  that  honest  opinions  have  been  proscribed,  or  the 
expression  of  them  thought  "  unfortunate  "  ? 

I  appreciate  all  the  kindness  of  your  letter,  and  your 
care  for  my  reputation ;  but  you  are  not  to  be  told  that 
there  is  something  higher  than  reputation. 

You  write  with  the  usual  anti-slavery  assurance  that 
your  opinion  is  the  correct  one.     It  is  natural ;  it  is  the 


Letters.  243 

first-blush,  the  impromptu  view  of  the  matter.  But 
whether  there  is  not  a  juster  view,  coming  out  of  that 
same  deliberateness  and  impartiality  that  you  accuse  me 
of,  —  whether  there  is  not,  in  fact,  a  broader  humanity 
and  a  broader  politics  than  yours  or  that  of  your  party, 
is  the  question. 

I  don't  like  the  tendencies  of  your  mind  (I  don't  say 
heart)  on  this  question ;  your  willingness  to  bring  the 
whole  grand  future  of  this  country  to  the  edge  of  the 
present  crisis ;  your  idea  of  this  crisis  as  a  second  Revolu- 
tion, and  of  the  cause  of  liberty  as  equally  involved  ;  your 

thinking  it  so  fatal  to  be  classed  with  Tories,  or  with , 

,  and ,  and  your  regret  that  I  should  have  gone 

down  South  to  lecture.     It  all  looks  to  me  narrow. 

I  may  address  the  public  on  this  subject.  But  if  I  do, 
I  shan't  do  it  mainly  for  my  own  sake ;  at  any  rate,  I 
shall  write  to  you  when  I  get  leisure. 

With  love  to  E., 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Ephraim  Peabody,  D.D. 

Sheffield,  Nm.  10,  1856. 
My  Dear  Peabody,  —  I  have  written  you  several  im- 
aginary letters  since  I  saw  you,  and  now  I  'm  determined 
(before  I  go  to  Baltimore  to  lecture,  which  is  next  week) 
that  I  will  write  you  a  real  one.  I  desired  H.  T.  to  in- 
quire and  let  me  know  how  you  are,  and  she  writes  that 
you  are  very  much  the  same  as  when  I  was  in  Boston,  — 
riding  out  in  the  morning,  and  passing,  I  fear,  the  same 
sad  and  weary  afternoons.  I  wish  I  were  near  you  this 
winter,  that  is,  if  I  could  help  you  at  all  through  those 
heavy  hours. 


244  Letters. 

I  am  writing  a  lecture  on  "  Unconscious  Education ; " 
for  I  want  to  add  one  to  the  Baltimore  course.  And  is 
not  a  great  deal  of  our  education  unconscious  and  mys- 
terious ?  You  do  not  know,  perhaps,  all  that  this  long 
sickness  and  weariness  and  prostration  are  doing  for 
you.  I  always  think  that  the  future  scene  will  open  to 
us  the  wonders  of  this  as  we  never  see  them  here. 

Heine  says  that  a  man  is  n't  worth  anything  till  he  has 
suffered ;  or  something  like  that.  I  am  a  great  coward 
about  it;  and  I  imagine  sometimes  that  deeper  trial 
might  make  something  of  me. 

My  dear  friend,  if  I  may  call  you  so,  I  write  to  little 
purpose,  perhaps,  but  out  of  great  sympathy  and  affec- 
tion for  you.  I  do  not  know  of  a  human  being  for  whom 
I  have  a  more  perfect  esteem  than  for  you.  And  in  that 
love  I  often  commend  you,  with  a  passing  prayer,  or 
sigh  sometimes,  to  the  all-loving  Father.  We  believe  in 
Him.     Let  us  "believe  the  love  that  God  hath  to  us." 

With  all  our  affectionate  regards  to  your  wife  and  girls 
and  to  you, 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

Within  a  few  weeks  the  pure  and  lofty  spirit 
to  whom  these  words  were  addressed  was  called 
hence,  and  the  following  letter  was  written:  — 

Sheffield,  Dec.  17,  1856. 
My  Dear  Mrs,  Peabody,  —  Do  you  not  know  why  I 
dread  to  write  to  you,  and  yet  why  I  cannot  help  it? 
Since  last  I  spoke  to  you,  such  an  event  has  passed,  that 
I  tremble  to  go  over  the  abyss  and  speak  to  you  again. 
But  you  and  your  children  stand,  bereft  and  stricken,  on 


Letters.  245 

the  shore,  as  it  were,  of  a  new  and  strange  world,  —  for 
strange  must  be  the  world  to  you  where  that  husband 
and  father  is  not,  —  and  I  would  fain  express  the  sym- 
pathy which  I  feel  for  you,  and  my  family  with  me.  Yet 
not  with  many  words,  but  more  fitly  in  silence,  should  I 
do  it.  And  this  letter  is  but  as  if  I  came  and  sat  by  you, 
and  only  said,  "  God  help  you,"  or  knelt  with  you  and 
said,  "God  help  us  all ;  "  for  we  are  all  bereaved  in  your 
bereavement. 

True,  hfe  passes  on  visibly  with  us  as  usual ;  but  every 
now  and  then  the  thought  of  you  and  him  comes  over 
me,  and  I  exclaim  and  pray  at  once,  in  wonder  and 
sorrow. 

But  the  everlasting  succession  of  things  moves  on,  and 
we  all  take  our  place  in  it — now,  to  mourn  the  lost,  and 
now,  ourselves  to  be  mourned  —  till  all  is  finished.  It 
is  an  Infinite  Will  that  ordains  it,  and  our  part  is  to  bow 
in  humble  awe  and  trust. 

I  had  a  letter  once,  from  a  most  lovely  woman,  an- 
nouncing to  me  the  death  of  her  husband,  a  worthless 
person ;  and  she  spoke  of  it  with  no  more  interest  than 
if  a  log  had  rolled  from  the  river-bank  and  floated  down 
the  stream.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  —  with  affec- 
tions, venerations,  loves,  sympathies,  swelling  around  you 
Uke  a  tide  ? 

I  know  that  among  all  these  there  is  an  unvisited 
loneliness  which  nothing  can  reach.  May  God's  peace 
and  presence  be  there  ! 

I  could  not  write  before,  being  from  home.  I  do  not 
write  anything  now,  but  to  say  to  you  and  your  dear 
children,  "  God  comfort  you  !  " 

From  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 


246  Letters. 


To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Baltimore,  Nov.  24,  1856. 

Dearest  Molly,  —  I  must  send  you  a  line,  though 
somehow  I  can't  make  my  table  write  yet.  I  have  just 
been  out  to  walk  in  the  loveliest  morning,  and  yet  my 
nerves  are  ajar,  and  I  can't  guide  my  pen.  I  preached 
very  hard  last  evening.  I  don't  know  but  these  people 
are  all  crazy,  but  they  make  me  feel  repaid.  The  church 
was  full,  as  I  never  saw  it  before.  The  lecture  Saturday 
evening  was  crowded.     So  I  go. 

I  am  reading  Dr.  Kane's  book.  Six  pages  could  give 
all  the  actual  knowledge  it  contains ;  but  that  fearful 
conflict  of  men  with  the  most  terrible  powers  of  nature, 
and  so  bravely  sustained,  makes  the  story  like  tragedy ; 
and  I  read  on  and  on,  the  same  thing  over  and  over,  and 

don't  skip  a  page.     But  Mrs.  has  just  been  in, 

and  sat  down  and  opened  her  widowed  heart  to  me,  and 
I  see  that  life  itself  is  often  a  more  solemn  tragedy  than 
voyaging  in  the  Arctic  Seas.  Nay,  I  think  the  deacon 
himself,  when  he  accepted  that  challenge  (how  oddly  it 
sounds  !),  must  have  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  more  tragic 
strait  than  "  Smith's  Strait,"  or  any  other  that  Kane 
was  in. 

Your  letters  came  Saturday  evening,  and  were,  by  that 
time,  an  indispensable  comfort.  .  .  . 

This  will  be  with  you  before  the  Thanksgiving  dinner. 
Bless  it,  and  you  all,  prayeth,  giving  thanks  with  and 
for  you, 

Your 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  247 

Mr.  Dewey  had  been  asked  repeatedly,  since 
his  retirement  from  New  York,  to  take  charge  of 
Church  Green,  in  Boston,  a  pulpit  left  vacant  by 
the  death  of  Dr.  Young ;  and  he  consented  to  go 
there  in  the  beginning  of  1858,  with  the  under- 
standing that  he  should  preach  but  once  on  a 
Sunday.  He  had  an  idea  of  a  second  service, 
which  should  be  more  useful  to  the  people  and 
less  exhausting  to  the  minister  than  the  ordinary 
afternoon  service,  which  very  few  attended,  and 
those  only  from  a  sense  of  duty.  •  He  had  written 
for  this  purpose  a  series  of  "  Instructions,"  as  he 
called  them,  on  the  104th  Psalm.  Each  was 
about  an  hour  long,  and  they  were,  in  short,  sim- 
ple lectures  on  religious  subjects.  To  use  his 
own  words,  "  This  was  not  preaching,  and  was 
attended  with  none  of  the  exhaustion  that  follows 
the  morning  service.  Many  people  have  no  idea, 
nor  even  suspicion,  of  the  difference  between 
praying  and  preaching  for  an  hour,  with  the 
whole  mind  and  heart  poured  into  it,  and  any 
ordinary  public  speaking  for  an  hour.  They 
seem  to  think  that  in  either  case  it  is  vox  et 
preterea  nihil,  and  the  more  voice  the  more  ex- 
haustion ;  but  the  truth  is,  the  more  the  feelings 
are  enlisted  in  any  way,  the  more  exhaustion, 
and  the  difference  is  the  greatest  possible." 


248  Letters. 


To  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

Boston,  Sept.  7,  1858. 

Dear  Bryant, — You  have  got  home.  If  you  pro- 
nounce the  charm-word  four  times  after  the  dramatic 
(I  mean  the  true  dramatic)  fashion,  all  is  told.  It  makes 
me  think  of  what  Mrs.  Kemble  told  us  the  other  day. 
In  a  play  where  she  acted  the  mistress,  and  her  lover 
was  shot,  —  or  was  supposed  to  be,  but  was  reprieved, 
and  came  rushing  to  her  arms,  —  instead  of  repeating 
a  long  and  pretty  speech  which  was  set  down  for  her, 
the  dramatic  passion  made  her  exclaim :  "  ALIVE  ! 
ALIVE  !  alive!  alive  !  " 

Well,  you  are  such  a  nomadic  cosmopolitan,  that  I 
won't  answer  for  you  ;  but  I  will  be  bound  it  is  so  with 
Mrs.  Bryant,  and  I  guess  Julia  too.  How  you  all  are,  and 
how  she  is  especially,  is  the  question  in  all  our  hearts ; 
and  without  waiting  for  forty  things  to  be  done,  all  work- 
ing you  like  forty-power  presses,  pray  write  us  three 
words  and  tell  us. 

...  I  hope  that  some  time  in  the  winter  I  shall  get 
a  sight  of  you.  You  and  the  Club  would  make  my 
measure  fulL    And  yet  Boston  is  great. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Boston,  Sept.  20,  1858. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  Dr.  Jackson  is  fast  turning  me 
into  a  vegetable, — homo  multi-cotyledonous '\%  the  species. 
My  head  is  a  cabbage  —  brain,  cauliflower ;  my  eyes  are 
two  beans,  with  a  short  cucumber  between  them,  for  a 
nose ;  my  heart  is  a  squash  (very  soft)  ;  my  lungs  —  cut 
a  watermelon  in  two,  lengthwise,  and  you  have  them ; 


Letters.  249 

my  legs  are  cornstalks,  and  my  feet,  ^^oXz^toes.  I  eat 
nothing  but  these  things,  and  I  am  fast  becoming  nothing 
else.  I  am  potatoes  and  com  and  cucumber  and  cab- 
bage, —  like  the  chameleon,  that  takes  the  color  of  the 
■  thing  it  lives  on.  Dr.  Jackson  will  have  a  great  deal  to 
answer  for  to  the  world.  Had  n't  you  better  come  into 
town  and  see  about  it?  Perhaps  you  can  arrest  the 
process.  .  .  . 

I  declare  I  think  it  is  too  bad  to  send  such  a  poor 
dish  to  you  as  this,  and  especially  in  your  loneliness ; 
but  it  is  all  Dr.  Jackson's  fault. 

Think  of  mosquito-bars  in  Boston  !  They  must  be 
very  trying  things  —  to  the  mosquitoes.  You  see  they 
don't  know  what  to  make  of  it ;  and  very  likely  their 
legs  and  wings  get  caught  sometimes  in  the  "  decussated, 
reticulated  interstices,"  as  Dr.  Johnson  calls  them.  At 
any  rate,  from  their  noise,  they  evidently  consider  them- 
selves as  the  most  ill-treated  and  unfortunate  outcasts 
upon  earth.  Paganini  wrote  the  "  Carnival  of  Venice." 
I  wonder  somebody  does  n't  write  the  no-carnival  of  the 
mosquitoes. 

To  the  Same. 

Boston,  Dec.  30, 1858. 

Dear  my  Friend,  -^- 1  cannot  let  the  season  of  happy 
wishes  pass  by  without  sending  mine  to  you  and  yours. 
But  you  must  begin  to  gather  up  patience  for  your  ven- 
erable friend,  for  the  happy  anniversaries  somehow 
begin  to  gather  shadows  around  them;  they  are  both 
reminders  and  admonishers. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  noteworthy  that  the  "  Happy  New 
Year  1 "  is  never  sounded  out  in  the  minor  key ;  always 
it  has  a  ring  of  joyousness  and  hope  in  it.     Read  that 


250  Letters. 

little  piece  of  Fanny  Kemble's,  on  the  1 79th  page,  — 
the  "  Answer  to  a  Question."  I  send  you  the  volume  ^ 
by  this  mail.  Ah  !  what  a  clear  sense  and  touching  sen- 
sibility and  bracing  moral  tone  there  is,  running  through 
the  whole  volume  !  But  I  was  going  to  say  that  that 
litde  piece  tells  you  what  I  would  write  better  than  I  can 
write  it.  We  all  send  "  Merry  Christmas  "  and  "  Happy 
New  Year  "  to  you  all,  in  a  heap  ;  that  is,  a  heap  of  us  to 
a  heap  of  you,  and  a  heap  of  good  wishes. 

My  poor  -head  is  rather  improving,  but  it  is  n't  worth 
much  yet,  as  you  plainly  see.  Nevertheless,  in  the  other 
and  sound  part  of  me  I  am, 

As  ever,  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  his  Sister,  Miss  F.  Dewey. 

[Date  missing.  About  1859.] 
So  you  remember  the  old  New  Bedford  times  pleas- 
antly, —  and  I  do.  And  I  remember  my  whole  lifetime 
in  the  same  way.  And  even  if  it  had  been  less  pleasant, 
if  there  had  been  many  more  and  greater  calamities  in 
it,  still  I  hold  on  to  that  bottom-ground  of  all  thanks- 
giving, even  this,  that  God  has  placed  in  us  an  immortal 
spark,  which  through  storm  and  cloud  and  darkness 
may  grow  brighter,  and  in  the  world  beyond  may  shine 
as  the  stars  forever.  I  heard  Father  Taylor  last  Sunday 
afternoon.  Towards  the  close  he  spoke  of  his  health  as 
uncertain  and  liable  to  fail ;  "  But,"  said  he,  "  I  have 
felt  a  little  more  of  immortality  come  down  into  me  to- 
day, and  as  if  I  should  live  awhile  longer  here." 

1  Mrs.  Kemble's  Poems. 


Letters.  251 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Boston,  Saturday  evening  [probably  Oct.,  1859]. 
Dear  my  Friend,  —  I  imagine  you  are  all  so  cast 
down,  forlorn,  and   desolate   at  my  leaving  you,  and 
especially 

"  At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill. 
And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove," 

that  I  ought  to  write  a  word  to  fill  the  void.  I  should 
have  said,  on  coming  away,  like  that  interesting  child 
who  had  plagued  everybody's  life  out  of  them,  "  I  '11 
come  again  ! " 

Bah  !  you  never  asked  me ;  or  only  in  such  a  sort 
that  I  was  obliged  to  decUne.  Am  I  such  a  stupid 
visitor  ?  Did  I  not  play  at  bagatelle  with  L.  ?  Did  I 
not  read  eloquently  out  of  Carlyle  to  you  and  C.  ?  Did 
I  not  talk  wisdom  to  you  by  the  yard  ?  Did  I  not  let 
drop  crumbs  of  philosophy  by  the  wayside  of  our  talk, 
continually  ?  Above  all,  am  I  not  the  veriest  woman,  at 
heart,  that  you  ever  saw?  Why,  I  had  like  to  have 
choked  upon  "  Sartor  Resartus."  I  wonder  if  you  saw 
it.  But,  ahem  !  —  a  great  swallow  a  man  must  have, 
to  gulp  down  the  "  Everlasting  Yea."  And  a  great  swal- 
low implies  a  great  stomach.  And  a  great  stomach  im- 
plies a  great  brain,  unless*a  man 's  a  fool.  "  If  not,  why 
not?  "  as  Captain  Bunsby  says ;  "  therefore." 

Oh,  what  a  mad  argument  to  prove  a  man  sane,  —  and 
good  company  besides  !  Well,  I  am  mad,  and  expect  to 
be  so,  —  at  least  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  be  so,  in  the  pro- 
portion of  one  hour  to  twenty-four,  being  so  rational  the 
rest  of  the  time.   I  think  it 's  but  a  reasonable  allowance. 


252  Letters. 

You  will  judge  that  this  is  my  mad  hour  to-day,  and  it 
is ;  nevertheless,  I  am,  soberly, 

Your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

In  the  winter  of  1859  he  writes  to  the  same 
friend  upon  New  York  City  politics  with  a  pas- 
sionate vivacity  that  old  New  Yorkers  will  sadly 
appreciate. 

"  I  took  up  the  paper  this  morning  that  announced 
Fernando  Wood's  election  by  two  thousand  plurality. 
If  you  had  seen  the  way  in  which  I  brought  down  my 
hand  upon  the  table,  —  minding  neither  muscle  nor 
mahogany,  —  you  would  know  how  people  at  a  distance, 
especially  if  they  have  ever  lived  in  New  York,  feel  about 
it.  I  hope  he  will  pay  you  well.  I  wish  he  would  take 
out  some  of  your  rich,  stupid,  arms-folding,  purse-clutch- 
ing milliormaires  into  Washington  Square  and  flay  them 
alive.  Something  of  the  sort  must  be  done,  before  our 
infatuated  city  upper  classes  will  come  to  their  senses." 

To  his  Sister,  Miss  F.  Dewey. 

Sheffield,  Oct.  5,  1859. 
I  HAVE  got  past  worrying  about  things,  myself.  I  see 
all  these  movements,  this  way  and  that  way,  as  a  part  of 
that  great  oscillation  in  which  the  world  has  been  swing- 
ing, to  and  fro,  from  the  beginning,  and  always  advan- 
cing. These  are  the  natural  developments  of  the  freed 
mind  of  the  world;  and  whoever  lives  now,  and  yet 
more,  whoever  shall  live  through  this  century,  must  take 
this  large  and  calm  philosophy  to  his  heart,  or  he  will 
find  himself  cast  upon  the  troubled  waters  without  rudder 


Letters.  253 

or  compass.  Daniel  Webster,  one  day  at  Marshfield, 
when  his  cattle  came  around  him  to  take  an  ear  of  com 
each  from  his  hand,  said  to  Peter  Harvey,  who  was  by, 
as  he  stood  looking  at  them,  "  Peter,  this  is  better  com- 
pany than  Senators."  So  I  am  tempted  to  turn  from  all 
the  religious  wranglings  and  extravagances  of  the  time, 
to  nature  and  to  the  solid  and  unquestioned  truths  of 
religion.  I  sometimes  doubt  whether  I  will  ever  read 
another  word  of  the  ultraists  and  the  one-sided  men. 
They  will  do  their  work,  and  it  will  all  come  to  good  in 
the  long  run ;  but  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  should  watch 
it  or  care  for  it.  I  did,  indeed,  print  a  political  sermon 
four  months  ago,  and  I  said  a  few  words  in  the  *'  Regis- 
ter" last  week  (which  I  will  send  you),  but  I  am  not 
the  man  to  be  heard  in  these  days.  /  can't  take  a 
side.  .  .  . 

Yours  as  always, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  William,  Cullen  Bryant^  Esq. 

Sheffield,  May  7,  i860. 

Well,  did  I  address  you  as  a  poet,  Ap  Magnus ;  for 
none  but  a  poet  or  a  Welshman  could  write  such  a  reply. 
Do  you  know  I  am  Welsh  ?  So  was  Elizabeth  Tudor ; 
so  is  Fanny  Kemble,  and  other  good  fellows. 

Well,  I  take  your  poetry  as  if  it  were  just  as  good  as 
prose.  But  you  don't  consider,  my  dear  fellow,  that  if 
we  make  our  visit  when  I  go  down  to  preach  for  Bellows, 
that  I  can't  preach  for  your  Orthodox  friend.  .  .  . 

Oh,  ay,  I  quite  agree  with  you  about  leaving  the  world- 
mel^e  to  others.  For  my  part,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  dead 
and  buried  long  ago.  You  said,  awhile  ago,  that  you 
did  n't  so  well  like  to  work  as  you  once  did.     Sensible, 


254  Letters. 

that.  I  feel  the  same,  in  my  bones  —  or  brains.  There 
it  is,  you  always  say,  what  I  think ;  except  sometimes, 
when  you  scathe  the  opponents,  —  for  I  am  tender- 
hearted. I  don't  like  to  have  people  made  to  feel  so 
"  bad."  Seriously,  I  wonder  that  some  of  you  editors 
are  not  beaten  to  death  every  month.  Ours  is  a  much- 
enduring  society.  I  could  enlarge,  but  I  have  n't  time ; 
for  I  must  go  and  set  out  some  trees  —  for  posterity. 
With  our  love  to  your  wife  and  all, 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Boston,  Dec.  ii,  i860. 
Dearest  Friend  (for  I  think  friends  draw  closer  to 
one  another  in  troublous  times),  —  Indeed  I  am  sad 
and  troubled,  under  the  most  favorable  view  that  can 
be  taken  of  our  affairs  ;  for  though  all  this  should  blow 
over,  as  I  prevailingly  believe  and  hope  it  will,  yet  the 
crisis  has  brought  out  such  a  feeling  at  the  South  as 
we  shall  not  easily  forget  or  forgive.  To  be  sure,  as  the 
irritation  of  an  arraigned  conscience,  we  may  partly  over- 
look it,  as  we  do"  the  irritation  of  a  blamed  child,  —  as 
an  arraigned,  and,  I  add,  not  quite  easy  conscience ;  for 
surely  conscious  virtue  is  calmer  than  the  South  is,  to- 
day. I  know  that  other  things  are  mixed  up  with  this 
feeling  of  the  South ;  but  if  it  felt  that  its  moral  position 
was  high  and  honorable  and  unimpeachable  before  the 
world,  it  would  not  fly  out  into  this  outrageous  passion. 
If  the  ground  it  stood  upon  in  former  days  were  held 
now,  it  might  be  calm,  as  it  was  then ;  but  ever  since  the 
day  when  it  changed  its  mind,  —  ever  since  it  has  as- 
sumed that  the  slave  system  is  right  and  good  and  admi- 


Letters.  255 

rable,  and  ought  to  be  perpetual,  —  it  has  been  growing 
more  and  more  passionate.  Well,  we  must  be  patient 
with  them.  For  my  part,  I  am  frightened  at  the  condi- 
tion to  which  their  folly  is  bringing  them.  It  is  terrible 
to  think  that  the  distrust  and  fear  of  their  slaves  is 
spreading  itself  all  over  the  South  country.  ,To  be  sure, 
they,  in  their  unreasonableness,  blame  us  for  it.  They 
might  as  well  accuse  England  ;  they  might  as  well  accuse 
all  the  civilized  world.  For  the  conviction  that  slavery 
is  wrong,  that  it  ought  not  to  be  advocated,  but  to  be 
condemned,  and  ultimately  removed  from  the  world,  — 
this  conviction  is  one  of  the  inevitable  developments  of 
modern  Christian  thought  and  sentiment.  It  is  not  we 
that  are  responsible  for  the  rise  and  spread  of  this  senti- 
ment :  it  is  the  civilized  world ;  it  is  humanity  itself. 

And  now  what  is  it  that  the  South  asks  of  us  as  the 
condition  of  union  with  it  ?  Why,  that  we  shall  say  and 
vote  that  we  so  much  approve  of  the  slave-system,  that 
we  are  willing,  not  merely  that  it  should  exist  untouched 
by  us,  —  that  is  not  the  question,  —  but  that  it  should  be 
taken  to  our  bosom  as  a  cherished  national  institution. 

I  hope  we  shall  firmly  but  mildly  refuse  to  say  it.  It 
is  the  only  honorable  or  dignified  or  conscientious  posi- 
tion for  us  of  the  North.  But,  do  you  see  the  result  of 
these  municipal  elections  in  Massachusetts  ?  That  does 
not  look  like  firmness.  There  may  be  flinching.  But 
so  it  is,  under  the  great  Providence,  that  the  world  wears 
around  questions  which  it  cannot  sharply  meet. 

These  matters  take  precedence  of  all  others  now-a- 
days,  or  else  my  first  word  would  have  been  to  say  how 
glad  we  were  to  hear  that  C.  is  well  again.  .  .  . 
Yours  as  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 


256  Letters. 


To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Boston,  Feb.  10, 1861. 

Happily  for  my  peace  of  mind,  I  have  been  over  to 
the  post-office  this  evening  and  got  your  letter.  For  my 
one  want  has  been  to  know  how  that  tremendous  Thurs- 
day afternoon  and  night  took  you ;  that  is,  whether  it 
took  you  off  the  ground,  or  the  roof  off  the  house. 
Here,  it  did  not  unroof  any  houses,  but  it  blew  over  a 
carryall  in  Beacon  Street;  and  when  Dr.  J.  went  out, 
like  a  good  Samaritan,  to  help  the  people,  it  did  not 
respect  his  virtue  at  all,  but  blew  him  over.  Blew  him 
over  the  fence,  it  was  said ;  at  any  rate,  landed  him  on 
his  face,  which  was  much  bruised,  and  dislocated  his 
shoulder.  So  you  see  I  could  not  tell  what  pranks  the 
same  wind  might  play  around  the  comers  of  certain 
houses  or  barns  afar  off. 

Was  there  ever  anything  like  the  swing  of  the  weather  ? 
Now  it  is  warm  here  again,  and  ready  to  rain.  Agassiz 
told  me  that  the  change  in  Cambridge,  on  Thursday, 
was  71°  in  ten  hoiirs.  In  Boston  it  was  60°,  being  10° 
or  11°  colder  in  Cambridge. 

I  see  Agassiz  often  of  late  at  Peirce's  Lowell  Lectures 
on  "  the  Mathematics  in  the  Cosmos."  The  object  is 
to  show  that  the  same  ideas,  principles,  relations,  which 
the  mathematician  has  wrought  out  from  his  own  mind, 
are  found  in  the  system  of  nature,  indicating  an  iden- 
tity of  thought.  You  see  of  what  immense  interest  the 
discussion  is.  But  Peirce's  delivery  of  his  thoughts  is 
very  lame  and  imperfect  (extemporaneous) .  Two  lec- 
tures ago,  as  I  sat  by  Agassiz,  I  said  at  the  close,  "  Well, 
I  feel  obliged  to  apologize  to  myself  for  being  here." 

A.  Why? 


Letters.  257 

D.  Because  I  don't  understand  half  of  it. 

^.  No?     I  am  surprised.     I  do. 

D.  Well,  that  is  because  you  are  learned.  (Think- 
ing \vith  myself,  however,  why  does  he  ?  For  he  knows 
no  more  of  the  mathematics  than  I  do.    But  I  went  on.) 

Z>.  Well,  my  apology  is  this  :  Peirce  is  like  nature,  — 
vast,  obscure,  mysterious,  —  great  bowlders  of  thought, 
of  which  I  can  hardly  get  hold ;  dark  abysses,  into  which 
I  cannot  see ;  but,  nevertheless,  flashes  of  light  here  and 
there,  and  for  these  I  come. 

A.  Why,  yes,  I  understand  him.  Just  now,  when  he 
drew  that  curious  diagram  to  illustrate  a  certain  prin- 
ciple, I  saw  it  clearly,  for  I  know  the  same  thing  in 
organic  nature. 

D.  Aha  !  the  Mathematics  in  the  Cosmos  ! 

Was  it  not  striking?  Here  are  the  Mathematics 
(Peirce),  and  Natural  Science  (Agassiz),  and  they  eas- 
ily understand  each  other,  because  the  lecturer's  prin- 
ciple is  true. 

The  three  or  four  years  which  Mr.  Dewey 
spent  in  Boston  with  his  family  were  full  of  en- 
joyment to  him;  but  in  December,  1861, he  with- 
drew finally  to  Sheffield,  which  he  never  left  again 
for  more  than  a  few  weeks  or  months  at  a  time. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

SHEFFIELD,y«/v26,  1861. 

My  Dear  Bellows,  —  God  bless  you  for  what  you 

and  your  Sanitary  Commission  are  doing  for  our  people 

in  the  camps  !    It  goes  to  my  heart  to  be  sitting  here  in 

quiet  and  comfort,  these  lovely  summer  days,  while  they 

17 


258  Letters. 

are  braving  and  enduring  so  much.  And  so,  though  of 
silver  and  gold  I  have  not  much,  I  send  my  mite  (^20), 
to  help,  the  little  that  I  can,  the  voluntary  contribution 
for  your  purposes. 

Last  Monday  night  was  the  bitterest  time  we  have  had 
yet.^  Some,  even  in  this  quiet  village,  did  not  sleep  a 
wink.     Confound  sensation  newspapers  and  newspaper 

correspondents  !    That  fellow  who  writes  to  the is 

enough  to  drive  one  mad.  The  "  Evening  Post  "  is  the 
wisest  paper.  But  it  is  too  bad  that  that  rabble  of 
civilians  and  teamsters  should  have  brought  this  appar- 
ent disgrace  upon  us. 

We  have  an  immense  amount  of  inexperience,  and  of 
rash,  opinionated  thinking  to  deal  with ;  but  we  shall  get 
over  it  all. 

If  you  are  staying  in  New  York,  I  wish  you  could  run 
up  and  take  a  little  breathing-time  with  us.  Come  any 
time ;  we  have  always  a  bed  for  you. 

We  are  all  well,  and  all  unite  in  love  to  you  and  E. 
Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  5,  1862. 

My  Friend,  —  I  must  report  myself  to  you.  I  must 
have  you  sympathize  with  my  life,  or  —  I  will  not  say  I 
shall  drown  myself  in  the  Housatonic,  but  I  shall  feel  as 
if  the  old  river  had  dried  up,  and  forsaken  its  bed. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  set  about  telling  you  how 
happy  I  am  in  the  old  home.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  arrived 
after  a  long  voyage,  or  were   reposing  after  a   day's 

1  Alluding  to  the  battle  and  rout  of  Bull  Run,  July  21,  1861. 


Letters.  259 

work  that  had  been  forty  years  long.  Indeed,  it  is 
forty-two  years  last  autumn  since  I  left  Andover  and 
began  to  preach.  And  I  have  never  before  had  any 
cessation  of  work  but  what  I  regarded  as  temporary. 
Indeed,  I  have  never  before  had  the  means  to  retire 
upon.  And  although  it  is  but  a  modest  competence,  — 
$1,500  a  year, —  yet  I  am  most  devoutly  thankful  to 
Heaven  that  I  have  it,  and  that  I  am  not  turned  out,  like 
an  old  horse  upon  the  common.  To  be  sure,  I  should 
be  glad  to  be  able  to  live  nearer  to  the  centres  of  society ; 
but  you  can  hardly  imagine  what  comfort  and  satisfac- 
tion I  feel  in  having  enough  to  live  upon,  instead  of  the 
utter  poverty  which  I  might  well  have  feared  would  be, 
and  which  so  often  is,  the  end  of  a  clergyman's  life.^ 

This  house  of  ours  is  very  pleasant,  —  you  would  think 
so  if  you  were  in  it,  —  all  doors  open,  as  in  summer,  a 
summer  temperature  from  the  furnace,  day  and  night, 
moderate  wood-fires  in  the  parlor  and  library,  cheering 
to  the  eye,  and  making  of  the  chimneys  excellent  ventila- 
tors, and  the  air  pure ;  and  this  summer  house  seated 
down  amidst  surrounding  cold,  and  boundless  fields  of 
snow,  —  it  seems  a  miracle  of  comfort. 

And  then,  this  surrounding  splendor  and  beauty,  — 
the  valley,  and  the  hills  and  mountains  around,  —  the 
soft-falling  snow,  the  starry  crystals  descending  through 
the  still  air,  —  the  lights  and  shadows  of  morning  and 
evening,  —  this  wondrous  meteorology  of  winter  —  but 
you  know  all  about  it.  Really,  I  think  some  days  that 
winter  is  more  beautiful  than  summer.  Certainly  I 
would  not  have  it  left  out  of  my  year.  ..."  Aha  ! 
all  is  rose-colored  to  him!^''    Well,  nay,  but  it  is  Hterally 

1  He  had  just  received  a  legacy  of  $5,000  from  Miss  Eliza 
Townsend,  of  Boston. 


26o  Letters. 

so.  The  white  hill  opposite,  looking  like  a  huge  snow- 
bank, only  that  it  is  checkered  with  strips  and  patches 
of  wood,  dark  as  Indian-ink,  is  stained  of  that  color 
every  clear  afternoon,  and  rises  up  at  sundown  into  a 
bank  of  roseate  or  purple  bloom  all  along  above  the 
horizon. 

dth.  I  did  n't  get  through  last  evening.  No  wonder, 
with  so  much  heavy  stuff  to  carry.  Did  I  ever  write 
such  a  stupid  letter  before  ?  Well,  do  not  say  anything 
about  it,  but  quickly  cover  it  over  with  the  mantle  of 
one  of  yoiu-  charming  epistles.  It  is  not  often  that  one 
has  a  chance  to  show  so  much  Christian  generosity. 
Besides,  consider  that  I  do  not  altogether  despair  of 
myself  I  am  reviving;  and  you  don't  know  what  a 
letter  I  may  write  you  one  of  these  days,  if  you  toll  me 
along. 

In  the  autumn  his  only  son  enlisted  for  nine 
months  in  the  49th  Massachusetts  Regiment, 

To  his  Daughters. 

Sheffield,  Oct.  13,  1862. 

My  Dear  Girls,  —  Charles  has  enlisted.  It  was  at  a 
war-meeting  at  the  town-hall  last  evening.  You  have 
known  his  feelings,  and  perhaps  will  not  be  surprised. 
I  did  not  expect  it,  and  must  confess  I  was  very  much 
shaken  in  spirit  by  it.  But,  arriving  through  some  sleep- 
less hours  at  a  calmer  mood,  I  do  not  know  that  it  is 
any  greater  sacrifice  than  we  as  a  family  ought  to  make. 

Although  it  will  throw  a  great  deal  of  care  upon  me, 
and  there  is  all  this  extra  work  to  do,  yet,  that  excepted, 
perhaps  he  could  not  go  at  any  better  time  than  now. 


Letters.  261 

It  is  for  the  winter,  and  nine  months  is  a  fitter  term  for 
a  family  man,  circumstanced  as  he  is,  than  three  years  ; 
and  this  enlistment  precludes  all  liability  to  future  draft. 
This  is  in  the  key  of  prudence  ;  but  I  do  think  that  men 
with  young  families  dependent  upon  them  should  be  the 
last  to  go.  And  yet  I  had  rather  have  in  C.  the  patri- 
otic spirit  that  impels  him,  than  all  the  prudence  in  the 
world. 

To  the  Same. 

Oct.  16,  1862. 
C.  is  steadily  and  calmly  putting  all  things  into  order 
that  he  can.  .  .  .  He  came  in  the  morning  after  he  had 
enlisted,  and  said  to  me  with  a  bright,  vigorous,  and 
satisfied  expression  of  countenance,  "Well,  you  see 
what  I  have  done."  I  believe  some  people  have  been 
very  much  stirred  and  moved  by  his  decision.  It  is 
said  to  have  given  an  impulse  to  the  recruiting,  and  the 
quota,  I  am  told,  is  now  about  full,  and  there  will  be  no 
drafting  here. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  —  thinking  of  all  possible 
good  or  ill  to  come,  your  mother  and  I  go  about,  from 
hour  to  hour,  sometimes  very  much  weighed  down,  and 
sometimes  more  hopeful  and  cheerful ;  and  poor  J.,  with 
the  tears  ready  to  come  at  every  turn,  is  yet  going  on 
very  bravely  and  well.  .  .  .  Cassidy  is  to  look  after 
barn-yard,  etc.,  for  the  winter. 

But  all  this  is  nothing.  Good  heaven !  do  people 
know,  does  the  world  know,  what  we  are  doing,  when 
we  freely  send  our  sons  from  peaceful  and  happy  homes 
to  meet  what  camp-life,  and  reconnoissances,  and  battles 
may  bring  to  them  and  us  ?    God  help  and  pity  us  ! 


262  Letters. 


To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  19,  1862. 

Dear  Friend,  —  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Curtis  ^  last  Satur- 
day, before  I  knew  what  had  befallen  her,  and  in  that 
letter  sent  a  message  to  you,  to  know  of  your  where- 
abouts, provided  you  were  still  in  town.  I  don't  expect 
an  answer  from  her  now,  of  course,  though  I  have  written 
her  since ;  but  thinking  that  you  are  probably  in  New 
York,  I  write. 

I  had  hoped  to  hear  from  you  before  now.  Through 
this  heavy  winter  cloud  I  think  friendly  rays  should 
shine,  if  possible,  to  warm  and  cheer  it.  It  is,  indeed, 
an  awful  winter.  I  will  not  say  dismal ;  my  heart  is  too 
high  for  that.  But  public  affairs,  and  my  private  share 
in  them,  together,  make  a  dread  picture  in  my  mind,  as 
if  I  were  gazing  upon  the  passing  of  mighty  floods,  that 
may  sweep  away  thousands  of  dwellings,  and  mine 
with  them.  And  though  I  lift  my  thoughts  to  Heaven, 
there  are  times  when  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  pray 
aloud  ;  the  burden  is  too  great  for  words.  It  is  singular, 
but  you  will  understand  it,  —  I  think  there  was  never  a 
time  when  there  was  less  visible  devotion  in  my  life  than 
now,  when  my  whole  being  is  resolved  into  meditations, 
and  strugglings  of  faith,  and  communings  with  the  su- 
preme and  holy  will  of  God. 

I  am  writing,  my  friend,  very  solemnly  for  a  letter ; 
but  never  mind  that,  for  we  are  obliged  to  take  into  our 
terrible  questioning  now  what  is  always  most  trying  in 
the  problem   of  life,  —  the  results  of  human  imperfec- 

^  Mrs.  George  Curtis,  of  New  York,  whose  son,  Joseph 
Bridgham  Curtis,  lieutenant-colonel,  commanding  a  Rhode 
Island  regiment,  had  just  fallen  at  Fredericksburg,  Va. 


Letters.  263 

tion,  human  incompetence,  brought  into  the  most  imme- 
diate connection  with  our  own  interests  and  affections. 
See  what  it  is  for  our  friend  Mrs.  Curtis  to  reflect  that 
her  son  was  slain  in  that  seemingly  reckless  assault  upon 
the  intrenchments  at  Fredericksburg,  or  for  me  that 
my  son  may  be  sent  off  in  rotten  transports  that  may 
founder  amidst  the  Southern  seas. 

But  do  I  therefore  spend  my  time  in  complainings 
and  reproaches,  and  almost  the  arraigning  of  Provi- 
dence? No.  I  know  that  the  governing  powers  are 
trying  to  do  the  best  they  can.  The  fact  is,  a  charge  is 
devolved  upon  them  almost  beyond  human  ability  to 
sustain.  Neither  Russia  nor  Austria  nor  France,  I  be- 
lieve, ever  had  a  million  of  soldiers  in  the  field,  to  clothe, 
to  equip,  to  feed,  to  pay,  and  to  direct.  We  have  them, 
—  we,  a  peaceful  people,  suddenly,  with  no  military  ex- 
perience, and  there  must  be  mistakes,  delays,  failures. 
What  then  ?  Shall  we  give  up  the  cause  of  justice,  of 
lawful  government,  of  civilization,  and  of  the  unborn 
ages,  and  do  nothing  ?  If  we  will  not,  —  if  we  will  not 
yield  up  lawful  sovereignty  to  mad  revolt,  then  must  we 
put  what  power,  faculty,  skill,  we  have,  to  the  work,  and 
amidst  all  our  sacrifices  and  sorrows  bow  to  the  awful 
will  of  God. 

Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Curtis  ?  In  her  son  there  was  a 
singular  union  of  loveliness  and  manliness,  of  gentleness 
and  courage,  and,  high  over  all,  perfect  self-abnegation. 
A  mother  could  not  well  lose  in  a  son  more  than  she 
has  lost.  I  hope  she  does  not  dwell  on  the  seeming 
untowardness  of  the  event,  or  that  she  can  take  it  into  a 
larger  philosophy  than  that  of  the  New  York  press.  .  .  . 


264  Letters. 


To  the  Same. 

Sheffield,  yw/y  26,  1863. 

Your  sympathy,  my  friend,  for  us  and  Charles,  is  very 
comforting  to  me.  Yes,  we  have  heard  from  him  since 
the  surrender  of  Port  Hudson.  He  wrote  to  us  on  the 
9th,  full  of  joy,  and  glorying  over  the  event ;  but,  poor 
fellow,  he  had  only  time  to  wash  in  the  conquered  Mis- 
sissippi, before  his  regiment  was  ordered  down  to  Fort 
Donaldsonville,  and  took  part  in  a  fight  there  on  the 
13th;  and  we  have  private  advices  from  Baton  Rougp 
that  the  brigade  (Augur's)  is  sent  down  towards  Brash- 
ear  City.  .  .  .  Now,  when  we  shall  hear  of  C.  I  do  not 
venture  to  anticipate,  but  whenever  we  do  get  any  news, 
that  is,  any  good  news,  you  shall  have  it. 

If  these  horrid  New  York  riots  had  not  lifted  up  a 
black  and  frightful  cloud  between  us  and  the  glorious 
events  in  Pennsylvania  and  the  Southwest,  we  should 
have  burst  out  into  illuminations  and  cannon-firings  all 
over  the  North.  But  the  good  time  is  coming !  We 
shall  be  ready  when  Sumter  is  taken.  I  hardly  know  of 
anything  that  would  stir  the  Northern  heart  like  that. 

I  have  not  seen  Mrs.  Kemble's  book  yet.  Have  you 
read  Calvert's  "Gentleman"?  It  is  charming.  And 
"  The  Tropics,"  too.  And  here  is  Draper's  book  upon 
the  "  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe  "  on  my  table. 
I  augur  much  from  the  first  dozen  pages. 

With  kind  remembrances  to  Mr.  Lane,  and  love  to 

the  girls, 

Yours  as  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  265 


To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

Sheffield,  Aiig.  15,  1863. 

My  Dear  Bellows,  —  Such  a  frolic  breeze  has  not 
fallen  upon  these  inland  waters  this  good  while.  Com- 
plain of  heat !  Why,  it  is  as  good  as  champagne  to  you. 
Well,  I  shan't  hesitate  to  write  to  you,  for  fear  of  adding 
to  your  overwhelming  burdens.  A  pretty  picture  your 
letter  is,  of  a  man  overwhelmed  by  burdens  !  And 
weigh  a  hundred  and  eighty  !  I  can't  believe  it.  Why, 
I  jiever  have  weighed  more  than  a  hundred  and  seventy- 
six.  Maybe  you  are  an  inch  or  two  taller ;  and  brains, 
I  have  often  observed,  weigh  heavy ;  but  yours  at  the  top 
must  be  like  a  glass  of  soda-water  !  Nature  did  a  great 
thing  for  you,  when  it  placed  that  buoyant  fountain 
within  you.     I  have  often  thought  so. 

But  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  that  with  all  the 
stupendous  share  you  have  had  in  the  burdens  of  this 
awful  time,  you  have  not  known,  and  without  knowing 
can  never  conceive,  of  what  has  weighed  upon  me  for 
the  last  nine  months.  ...  I  thank  you  most  heartily  for 
your  sympathy  with  C.  After  all,  my  satisfaction  in 
what  he  has  done  is  not  so  great  as  in  what  his  letters, 
all  along,  show  him  to  be.  .  .  . 

Always  and  affectionately  your  fHend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lindsey. 

Sheffield,  Nov.  28,  1863. 
My  Dear  Friends,  —  I  received  your  letter,  dated 
20  September,  two  days  ago.    I  am  very  sorry  to  see  that 
you  are  laboring  under  the  mistaken  impression  that  I 


266  Letters. 

have  lost  my  son  in  the  war.  Something  you  misappre- 
hended in 's  letter.     You  seem  to  suppose  that  it 

was  Charles  who  used  that  striking  language,  "  Is  old 
Massachusetts  dead  ?  It  is  sweet  to  die  for  our  coun- 
try!" No;  it  was  Lieutenant-Colonel  O'Brien,  who 
fell  immediately  afterwards.  Charles  was  one  of  the 
storming  party  under  O'Brien.  He  stepped  forward  at 
that  call,  for  they  had  all  hesitated  a  moment,  as  the  call 
was  unexpected ;  it  came  upon  them  suddenly.  He  be- 
haved as  well  as  if  he  had  fallen ;  but,  thank  God,  he 
is  preserved  to  us,  and  is  among  us  in  health,  in  these 
Thanksgiving  days.  All  were  around  my  table  day  befc»e 
yesterday,  —  three  children,  with  their  mother,  and  three 
grandchildren. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  29,  1863. 
Dear  Friend,  —  Our  Hfe  goes  on  as  usual,  though 
those  drop  from  it  that  made  a  part  of  it.  We  strangely 
accustom  ourselves  to  everything,  —  to  war  and  blood- 
shed, to  sickness  and  pain,  to  the  death  of  friends ;  and 
that  which  was  a  bitter  sorrow  at  first,  sinks  into  a  quiet 
sadness.  And  this  not  constant,  but  arising  as  occasions 
or  trains  of  thought  call  it  forth.  Life  is  like  a  proces- 
sion, in  which  heavy  footsteps  and  gay  equipages,  and 
heat  and  dust,  and  struggle  and  laughter,  and  music  and 
discord,  mingle  together.  We  move  on  with  it  all,  and 
our  moods  partake  of  it  all,  and  only  the  breaking  asun- 
der of  the  natural  bonds  and  habitudes  of  living  to- 
gether (except  it  be  of  some  especial  heart-tie)  makes 
affliction  very  deep  and  abiding,  or  sends  us  away  from 
the  great  throng  to  sit  and  weep  alone.     Of  friends,  I 


Letters.  267 

think  I  have  suffered  more  from  the  loss  of  the  living 
than  of  the  dead. 

I  do  not  know  but  you  will  think  that  all  this  is  very 
little  like  me.  It  certainly  less  belongs  to  the  sad  occa- 
sion that  has  suggested  it  than  to  any  similar  one  that 
has  ever  occurred  to  me.  I  shall  miss  E.  S.  from  my 
path  more  than  any  friend  that  has  ever  gone  away  from 
it  into  the  unknown  realm. 

Oh  !  the  unknown  realm  !  Will  the  time  ever  come, 
when  men  will  look  into  it,  or  have  it,  at  least,  as  plainly 
spread  before  them  as  to  the  telescopic  view  is  the 
landscape  of  the  moon  ?  I  believe  that  I  have  as  much 
faith  in  the  future  life  as  others,  —  perhaps  more  than 
most  men,  —  but  I  am  one  of  those  who  long  for  actual 
vision,  who  would 

"  See  the  Canaan  that  they  love, 
With  un  beclouded  eyes." 

But  now  what  I  have  been  saying  reasserts  its  claim. 
The  great  procession  moves  on,  —  past  the  solemn  bier, 
past  holy  graves.  You  are  in  it,  and  in  these  days  your 
life  is  crowded  ^ith  cares  and  engagements.  ...  I  wish 
I  could  do  something  for  the  Great  Fair ;  ^  but  I  am 
exhausted  of  all  my  means. 

.  .  .  With  my  love  to  all  around  you,  I  am,  as  ever, 
Yours  affectionately, 

Orville  Dewey. 

1  The  Great  Fair,  held  in  New  York  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Sanitary  Commission,  and  of  which  Mrs.  Lane  was  the  chief 
manager  and  inspiring  power. 


268  Letters. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  31,  1863. 

.  .  .  Ah  !  heaven,  —  what  is  rash  or  wise,  short- 
sighted or  far-seeing,  too  fast  or  too  slow,  upon  the  pro- 
found and  terrible  question,  "  What  is  to  be  done  with 
slavery?"  You  have  been  saying  something  about  it, 
and  I  rather  think,  if  I  could  see  it,  that  I  should  very 
much  agree  with  you.  Bryant  and  I  had  some  corre- 
spondence about  it  a  year  ago,  and  I  said  to  him :  "  If 
you  expect  this  matter  to  be  all  settled  up  in  any  brief 
way,  if  you  think  that  the  social  status  of  four  millions  of 
people  is  to  be  successfully  placed  on  entirely  new  ground 
in  five  years,  all  historical  experience  is  against  you." 

However,  the  real  and  practical  question  now  is,  How 
ought  the  Government  to  proceed  ?  Upon  what  terms 
should  it  consent  to  receive  back  and  recognize  the 
Rebel  States?  I  confess  that  I  am  sometimes  tempted 
to  go  with  a  rush  on  this  subject,  —  since  so  fair  an  op- 
portunity is  given  to  destroy  the  monster,  —  and  to  make 
it  the  very  business  and  object  of  the  war  to  sweep  it  out 
of  existence.  But  that  will  be  the  end ;  and  for  the  way, 
things  will  work  out  their  own  issues.  And  in  the  mean 
time  I  do  not  see  that  anything  could  be  better  than 
the  cautious  and  tentative  manner  in  which  the  President 
is  proceeding. 

One  thing  certainly  has  shaken  my  old  convictions 
about  the  feasibility  of  immediate  emancipation,  and 
that  is  the  experiment  of  emancipated  labor  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi and  about  Port  Royal.  But  the  severest  trial  of 
emancipation,  as  of  democracy,  —  that  is,  of  fireeing 
black  men  as  of  freeing  white  men,  —  may  not  be  found 
at  the  start,  but  long  after. 


Letters.  269 

To  the  Same. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  12,  1864. 

Reverend  and  dearly  beloved,  thou  and  thy  peo- 
ple, —  We  are  so  much  indebted  to  you  all  for  our  four 
pleasant  days  in  the  great  city,  that  I  think  we  ought  to 
write  a  letter  to  you.  We  feel  as  if  we  had  come  out  of 
the  great  waters  ;  the  currents  of  city  life  run  so  strong, 
that  it  seems  to  us  as  if  we  had  been  at  sea ;  so  many 
tall  galleys  are  there,  and  such  mighty  freights  are  upon 
the  waves,  and  the  captains  and  the  very  sailors  are  so 
thoroughly  alive,  that  —  that  —  how  shall  I  end  the 
sentence  ?  Why,  thus,  if  you  please,  —  that  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  ought  to  be  there  six  months  of  the  year,  and 
that  somebody  ought  to  want  me  to  do  something  that 
would  bring  me  there.  But  somebody,  —  who  is  that? 
Why,  nobody.  You  can't  see  him  ;  you  can't  find  him  ; 
Micawber  never  caught  him,  though  he  was  hunting  for 
him  all  his  life,  —  always  hoped  the  creature  would  turn 
up,  though  he  never  did. 

Well,  I  'm  content.  I  am  more,  I  am  thankful.  I 
have  had,  all  my  life,  the  greatest  blessing  of  life,  —  leave 
to  work  on  the  highest  themes  and  tasks,  and  I  am  not 
turned  out,  at  the  end,  on  to  the  bare  common  of  the 
world,  to  starve.  I  have  a  family,  priceless  to  me.  I 
have  many  dear  and  good  friends,  and  above  all  I  have 
learned  to  draw  nigh  to  a  Friendship  which  embraces 
the  universe  in  its  love  and  care,  if  one  may  speak  so 
of  That  which  is  almost  too  awful  for  mortal  word.  .  .  . 

But  leaving  myself,  and  turning  to  you,  —  what  a 
monstrous  person  you  are  !  a  prodigy  of  labor,  and  a 
prodigy  in  some  other  ways  that  I  could  point  out.  I 
always  thought  that  the  elastic  spring  in  your  nature  was 


2/0  Letters. 

one  of  the  finest  I  ever  knew,  but  I  did  not  know  that  it 
was  quite  so  strong.  You,  too,  know  of  a  faith  that  can 
remove  mountains. 

The  Great  Fair  is  one  mountain.  I  hope  you  will  get 
the  "  raffles  "  question  amicably  settled.  There  is  the 
same  tempest  in  the  Sheffield  teapot ;  for  we  have  a 
fair  on  the  2 2d,  and  they  have  determined  here  that  they 
won't  have  raffles. 

What  made  you  think  that  I  "  dread  public  prayers  "  ? 
Did  I  say  anything  to  you  about  it?  If  I  did,  I  should 
not  have  used  exactly  the  word  "dread."  The  truth  is, 
that  state  of  the  mind  which  is  commonly  called  prayer 
becomes  more  and  more  easy,  or  at  least  inevitable  to  me ; 
but  the  action  has  become  so  stupendous  and  awful  to 
me,  that  I  more  and  more  desire  the  privacy  in  it  of  my 
own  thoughts.  "Prayers," — "saying  one's  prayers," 
grows  distasteful  to  me,  and  a  Liturgy  is  less  and  less 
satisfying.     Communion  is  the  word  I  like  better. 

But  I  have  touched  too  large  a  theme.     With   our 

love  to  E.  and  your  lovely  children,  let  me  be, 

Always  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  22,  1864. 
Dear  Friend,  —  You  are  not  well ;  I  know  you  are 
not,  or  you  would  have  written  to  me ;  and  indeed  they 
told  me  so  when  I  was  in  New  York  the  other  day.  I 
wrote  you  a  good  (?)  long  letter  about  New  Year's, 
which  "  the  human  race  running  upon  our  errands"  (as 
Carlyle  says)  has  delivered  to  you,  unless  in  the  confu- 
sion of  these  war  times  it  has  let  said  letter  drop  out  of 


Letters.  271 

its  pocket.  That  many-membered  body,  according 
to  this  account  of  it,  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  us ; 
and,  do  you  know,  I  find  great  help  by  merging  myself 
in  the  human  race.  It  has  taken  a  vast  deal  of  worry 
to  wash  and  brush  it  into  neatness,  and  to  train  it  to 
order,  virtue,  and  sanctity;  why  should  I  not  have 
my  share  in  the  worry  and  weariness  and  trouble? 
Many  have  been  sick  and  suffering,  —  all  mankind 
more  or  less;  why  should  not  I  be?  All  the  human 
generations  have  passed  away  from  the  world :  Walter 
Scott  died ;  Prescott  died ;  Charles  Dewey,  of  Indi- 
ana, died;  E.  S.  has  died;  who  am  I,  that  I  should 
ask  to  remain? 

E.'s  passing  away  was  very  grand  and  noble,  —  so 
cheerful,  so  natural,  —  so  full  of  intelligence  and  fuller 
of  trust,  —  this  earthly  land  to  her  but  a  part  of  the 
Great  Country  that  lies  beyond.  She  left  such  an  im- 
pression upon  her  family  and  friends,  that  they  hardly 
yet  mourn  her  loss  as  they  will ;  they  feel  as  if  she  were 
still  of  them  and  with  them.  .  .  . 

All  my  people  love  you,  as  does 

Your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To    William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

Sheffield,  May  i,  1864. 
Thank  your  magnificence  !  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say 
your  misericordia,  for  Charles  says  you  wrote  to  him 
that  you  knew  I  should  n't  have  those  grapes  unless  you 
sent  them  to  me.  And  I  am  afraid  it 's  true ;  for  I  have 
had  such  poor  success  in  my  poor  grape-culture,  that  I 
had  about  given  up  in  despair. 


2/2  Letters. 

Nathless,  I  have  had  these  set  out,  according  to 
the  best  of  my  judgment,  in  the  best  place  I  could  find 
in  the  open  garden,  and  I  will  have  a  trellis  or  some- 
thing for  them  to  run  upon ;  and  then  they  may  do  as 
they  have  a  mind  to. 

I  have  delayed  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  the 
grape-roots,  —  Charles  is  n't  to  blame,  I  told  him  I 
would  write,  —  because  I  waited  for  the  cider  to  come, 
that  wife  and  I  might  overwhelm  you  with  a  joint  letter 
of  thanks,  laudation,  and  praise.  But  I  can  wait  no 
longer.  That  is,  the  cider  does  n't  come,  and  I  begin 
to  think  it  is  a  myth.  Poets,  you  know,  deal  in  such. 
They  imagine,  they  idealize,  nay,  it  is  said  they  create ; 
and  if  we  were  poets,  I  suppose  we  should  before  now 
have  as  good  as  drank  some  of  that  Long  Island 
champagne. 

Speaking  of  poets  reminds  me  that  I  did  n't  tell  you 
how  charmed  I  was  with  those  translations  from  the 
Odyssey ;  the  blank  verse  is  so  simple,  clear,  and  ex- 
quisite, —  so  I  think. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  May  5, 1864. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  Dear  B.  did  you  no  wrong,  and 
me  much  right,  in  giving  me  to  read  a  letter  of  yours  to 
her,  written  more  than  a  month  ago,  which  impressed 
me  more  and  did  me  more  good  than  any  letter  I  have 
read  this  long  time.  It  was  that  in  which  you  spoke 
of  Mr.  Choate.  It  was  evidently  written  with  effort  and 
with  interruptions,  —  it  was  not  like  your  finished,  though 
unstudied  letters,  of  which  I  have  in  my  garner  a 
goodly  sheaf;   but  oh  !  my  friend,  take  me  into  your 


Letters.  273 

realm,  your  frame  of  mind,  your  company,  wherever  it 
shall  be.  The  silent  tide  is  bearing  us  on.  May  it 
never  part,  but  temporarily,  my  humble  craft  from  your 
lovely  sail,  which  seems  to  gather  all  things  sweet  and 
balmy  —  affections,  friendships,  kindnesses,  touches  and 
traits  of  humanity,  hues  and  fragrances  of  nature,  bless- 
ings of  providence  and  beatitudes  of  life  —  into  its  per- 
fumed bgsom. 

You  will  think  I  have  taken  something  from  Choate. 
What  a  strange,  Oriental,  enchanted  style  he  has ! 
What  gleams  of  far-off  ideas,  flashes  from  the  sky,  es- 
sences from  Arabia,  seem  unconsciously  to  drop  into  it ! 
I  have  been  reading  him,  in  consequence  of  what  you 
wrote.  It  is  strange  that  with  all  his  seeking  for  perfec- 
tion in  this  kind  he  did  not  succeed  better.  But  it 
would  seem  that  his  affluent  and  mysterious  genius 
could  not  be  brought  to  walk  in  the  regular  paces.  He 
was  certainly  a  very  extraordinary  person.  I  understand 
better  his  generosity,  candor,  amiableness,  playfulness. 
I  understand  what  you  mean  by  the  resemblance  be- 
tween him  and  your  brother  Charles.  With  constant 
love  of  us  all,  Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  Sept.  3,  1864. 

Dear  Friend,  —  ...  Mrs. reported  you  very 

much  occupied  with  documents,  papers,  letters,  and  what 
not,  on  matters  connected  with  the  Sanitary.  I  should 
like  to  have  you  recognize  that  there  are  other  people 
who  need  to  be  healed  and  helped  besides  soldiers  ;  and 
that  there  are  other  interests  beside  public  ones  to  be 
looked  after.  Are  not  all  interests  individual  interests  in 
18 


2/4  Letters. 

the  "  last  analysis,"  as  the  philosophers  say?  But  I  am 
afraid  you  don't  believe  in  analysis  at  all.  Generality, 
combination,  is  everything  with  you.  One  part  of  the 
human  race  is  rolled  up  into  a  great  bundle  of  sickness, 
wounds,  and  misery;  and  the  other  is  nothing  but  a 
benevolent  blanket  to  be  wrapped  round  it.  And  if  any 
one  thread  —  videlicet  I  —  should  claim  to  have  any 
separate  existence  or  any  little  tender  feeling  by  itself, 
immediately  the  manager  of  the  Great  Sanitary  Fair 
says,  "  Hush  !  lie  down  !  you  are  nothing  but  a  part  of 
the  blanket." 

But  a  truce  to  nonsense.  Since  writing  the  foregoing, 
the  news  has  come  from  Atlanta.  Oh !  if  Grant  could 
do  the  same  thing  to  Lee's  army,  not  only  would  the 
Rebellion  be  broken,  but  the  Copperhead  party  would 
be  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 

Do  you  read  anything  this  summer  but  reports  from 
Borrioboola  Gha?  The  best  book  I  have  read  — 
Ticknor's  "Prescott,"  Alger's  "Future  Life,"  Furness's 
"  Veil  Partly  Lifted,"  etc.,  notwithstanding  —  is  De 
Tocqueville's  "  Ancient  Regime  and  the  Revolution." .  . . 
Your  old  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

Nov.  9,  1864. 
Charming  !  I  will  be  as  bad  as  I  can.  Talk  about 
being  "  useful  to  the  world  "  !  If  the  people  that  do  the 
most  good,  or  get  it  to  be  done,  —  same  thing,  —  are  to 
be  sought  for,  are  n't  they  the  wicked  ones  ?  Where  had 
been  the  philanthropists,  heroes,  martyrs,  but  for  them? 


Letters.  275 

Where  had  been  Clarkson  and  Wilberforce,  but  for  the 
slave-catchers?  Where  Howard,  but  for  cruel  sailors? 
Where  Brace,  but  for  naughty  boys  ?  Where  our  noble 
President  of  the  Sanitary,  but  for  the  wicked  Rebels  ? 
And  how  should  I  ever  have  known  that  Mrs.  Lane  was 
capable  of  such  a  fine  and  eloquent  indignation,  if,  in- 
stead of  being  a  bad  boy,  "  neglecting  the  opportuni- 
ties "  thrown  in  my  way,  I  had  been  just  a  good  sort 
of  middle-aged  man,  "  in  the  prime  of  life,"  doing  as  I 
ought  ?  Really,  there  ought  to  be  a  society  got  up  to 
make  bad  people,  —  they  are  so  useful ! 

I  heard  a  man  say  of  Bellows,  the  other  day  in  the 
cars,  "He  is  a  noble  man  !  "  And  it  was  an  Orthodox, 
formerly  a  member  and  elder  of  Dr.  Spring's  church. 
And  what  do  you  think  he  said  to  me  ?  "  Don't  you 
remember  me  ?  "  —  "  No."  —  "  Don't  you  remember 
when  you  were  a  young  man,  in  Dodge  &  Sayre's  book- 
store, that  Jasper  Coming  and  I  set  up  a  Sunday- 
school  for  colored  people  in  Henry  Street,  and  that  you 
taught  in  it  for  several  months  ?  And  a  good  teacher 
you  were,  too."  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Oh,  dear  me  !  I 
hope  there  are  some  other  good  things  which  I  have 
done  in  the  world  that  I  don't  remember. 

"  A  grand  sermon,"  you  heard  last  Sunday,  hey?  And 
then  went  to  the  "  Century  "  Rooms,  to  see  the  decora- 
tions of  the  Bryant  Festival !  It  seems  to  me  that  was 
rather  a  queer  thing  to  do,  after  sermon  !  You  will  have 
to  write  a  letter  to  me  immediately,  to  relieve  my  anxie- 
ties about  your  religious  education.  Was  the  text, "  And 
they  rose  up  early  on  the  morrow  and  offered  burnt  sac- 
rifices and  brought  peace  offerings ;  and  the  people  sat 
down  to  eat  and  to  drink,  and  rose  up  to  play  "?  See 
the  same.  Exodus  xxxii.  6. 


276  Letters. 

There  !  I  am  not  in  deep  waters,  you  see,  but  skim- 
ming on  the  surface,  except  when  I  subscribe  myself 
your  abused,  scolded,  but 

Faithful  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

My  wife  and  people  send  their  lov^  and  dure  indigna- 
tion to  you. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  12,  1864. 

...  It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  upon  death.  It 
would  not  be  pleasant  to  any  company  of  friends  to 
think  that  the  hour  for  parting  was  near.  Death  is  a 
solemn  and  painful  dispensation.  I  will  have  no  hallu- 
cination about  it.  I  "  wait  the  great  teacher,  Death." 
I  do  not  welcome  it.  It  is  a  solemn  change.  It  is  a 
dread  change  to  natures  like  ours.  I  do  not  believe 
that  the  Great  Disposer  meant  that  we  should  approach 
it  with  a  smile,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  —  with  any  other 
than  feelings  of  lowly  submission  and  trust.  I  do  not 
want  to  die.  I  never  knew  anybody  that  did,  except 
when  bitter  pain  or  great  and  irremediable  unhappiness 
made  the  release  welcome. 

And  yet,  I  would  not  remain  forever  in  this  world. 
And  thus,  like  the  Apostle,  "  I  am  in  a  strait  betwixt 
two."  And  I  believe  that  it  is  better  to  depart ;  but  it 
is  a  kind  of  reluctant  conclusion.  It  may  be  even  cheer- 
ful ;  but  it  does  not  make  it  easy  for  me  to  tear  myself 
from  all  the  blessed  ties  of  life.  I  submit  to  God's 
awful  will ;  but  it  is  with  a  struggle  of  emotions,  that  is 
itself  painful  and  trying,  —  that  tasks  all  the  fortitude  and 
faith  of  which  I  am  capable.     , 


Letters.  2// 

Will  you  tell  me  that  our  Christian  masters  and  mar- 
tyrs spoke  of  a  "victory"  over  death?  Yes,  but  is 
victory  all  joy?  Ah,  what  a  painful  thing  is  every  victory 
of  our  arms  in  these  bloody  battles,  though  we  desire  it ! 

Do  you  feel  that  I  am  not  writing  to  you  in  the  high 
Christian  strain?  Perhaps  not.  But  I  confess  I  am  ac- 
customed to  bring  all  that  is  taught  me  —  all  that  is  said 
in  exceptional  circumstances  like  those  of  the  apostles  — 
into  some  adjustment  with  a  natural,  necessary,  and  uni- 
versal experience.  Besides,  Jesus  himself  did  not  ap- 
proach death  with  a  song  of  triumph  upon  his  lips. 
What  a  union,  in  him,  of  sorrow  and  trust !  No  defying 
of  pain,  no  boasting  of  calmness  or  strength,  no  braving 
of  martyrdom,  —  not  half  so  fine  and  grand,  to  a  worldly 
and  superficial  view,  as  many  a  martyr's  death  !  But 
oh,  what  a  blending  in  him  of  everything  that"  makes 
perfection,  —  of  pain  and  patience,  of  trial  and  trust ! 

But  I  am  writing  too  long  a  letter  for  you  to  read. 

K.  just  came  into  my  study,  and  says,  "  Do  give  my 
love."  I  answer,  "  I  give  all  our  love  always."  So  I 
do  now  j  and  with  the  kindest  regards  to  all  around  you, 
I  am,  as  ever, 

Most  affectionately  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

Sheffield,  ya«.  7,  1865. 
Thanks  for  a  beautiful  record  of  a  beautiful  festival  ^ 
to  a  beautiful  —  but  enough  of  this.     You  must  have 

1  At  the  "  Century,"  New  York,  Nov.  5,  1864,  in  honor  of 
Mr.  Bryant's  seventieth  birthday. 


2/8  Letters. 

had  a  surfeit.  'T  was  all  right  and  due,  but  it  must  have 
been  a  hard  thing  to  bear,  —  to  be  so  praised  to  your 
very  face.  .  .  .  Your  reply  was  admirable,  —  simple, 
modest,  quiet,  graceful,  —  in  short,  I  don't  see  how  it 
could  be  better.  For  the  rest,  I  think  our  cousin  Waldo 
chiselled  out  the  nicest  bit  of  praise  that  was  done  on  the 
occasion. 

To  Rev.  Henry    W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  24,  1865. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  was  intending  to  write  to  you 
ten  days  ago,  and  should  have  done  so  before  now,  but 
my  mind  has  been  engrossed  with  a  great  anxiety  and 
sorrow ;  my  grandson  and  namesake  was  taken  with  a 
fever,  which  went  to  the  brain,  and  he  died  last  Monday 
evening.  I  cannot  tell  you  —  you  could  hardly  beUeve 
what  an  affliction  it  has  been  to  me.  He  was  five  years 
old,  a  lovely  boy,  and,  I  think,  of  singular  promise,  —  of 
a  fine  organization,  more  than  beautiful,  and  with  a  mind 
inquiring  into  the  causes  and  reasons  of  things,  such  as 
I  have  rarely  seen.  .  .  .  We  meant  to  educate  this  boy ; 
I  hoped  that  he  would  bear  up  my  name.  God's  will 
be  done  ! 

It  was  of  the  coming  Convention  that  I  was  going  to 
write  to  you ;  but  now,  just  now,  I  have  no  heart  for  it. 
But  I  feel  great  interest  in  the  movement.  Would  that 
it  were  possible  to  organize  the  Unitarian  Church  of 
America,  —  to  take  this  great  cause  out  of  the  hands  of 
speculative  dispute,  and  to  put  it  on  the  basis  of  a  work- 
ing institution.  To  find  a  ground  of  union  out  of  which 
may  spring  boundless  freedom  of  thought,  —  is  it  im- 
possible? I  should  like  to  see  a  church  which  could 
embrace  and  embody  all  sects. 


Letters.  279 


To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

Sheffield,  April  11,  1865. 
.  .  .  But  I  feel  as  if  it  were  profane  to  speak  of  com- 
mon things  in  these  blessed  days.  Did  you  observe 
what  the  papers  say  about  the  manner  in  which  they 
received  the  Great  News  yesterday  in  New  York/  —  not 
with  any  loud  ebullition  of  joy,  but  rather  with  a  kind  of 
religious  silence  and  a  gratitude  too  deep  for  utterance  ? 
And  I  see  that  they  propose  to  celebrate,  not  with  fire- 
works and  firing  of  cannon,  but  with  an  illumination,  — 
the  silent  shining  out  of  joy  from  every  house.  Last 
evening  the  locomotive  of  the  freight  train  expressed  itself 
in  a  singular  way.  Not  shutting  its  whistle  when  it  left 
the  station,  it  went  singing  all  down  through  the  valley. 
For  my  part,  I  feel  a  solemn  joy,  as  if  I  had  escaped 
some  great  peril,  only  that  it  is  multiplied  by  being  that 
of  millions. 

To  Rev.  Henry    W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

Sheffield,  April  15,  1865. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  We  used  to  think  that  life  in 
our  country,  under  our  simple  republican  regime  and 
peaceful  order,  was  tame  and  uneventful ;  given  over  to 
quiet  comfort  and  prosaic  prosperity ;  never  startled  by 
anything  more  notable  than  a  railroad  disaster  or  a 
steamer  burnt  at  sea.  Events  that  were  typified  by  the 
sun  turning  to  darkness  and  the  moon  to  blood,  and  stars 
falling  fi-om  heaven,  —  distress  of  nations  with  perplexity 
of  men's  hearts,  failing  them  for  fear,  —  all  this  seemed 
to  belong  to  some  far-off  country  and  time. 

1  The  surrender  of  the  Rebel  army. 


28o  Letters. 

But  it  has  come  to  us.  God  wills  that  we  should 
know  all  that  any  nation  has  known,  of  whatever  disci- 
phnes  men  to  awe  and  virtue.  The  bloody  mark  upon 
the  lintel,  for  ten  thousands  of  first-born  slain,  —  the 
anxiety  and  agony  of  the  struggle  for  national  existence, 

—  the  tax-gatherer  taking  one  fourth  part  of  our  liveli- 
hood, and  a  deranged  currency  nearly  one  half  of  the 
remainder, —  four  years  of  the  most  frightful  war  known 
in  history,  —  and  then,  at  the  very  moment  when  our 
hearts  were  tremulous  with  the  joy  of  victory,  and  every 
beating  pulse  was  growing  stiller  and  calmer  in  the  blessed 
hope  of  peace,  then  the  shock  of  the  intelligence  that 
Lincoln  and  Seward,  our  great  names  borne  up  on  the 
swelling  tide  of  the  nation's  gratulation  and  hope,  have 
fallen,  in  the  same  hour,  under  the  stroke  of  the  assassin, 

—  these  are  the  awful  visitations  of  God  ! 

...  As  I  slowly  awake  to  the  dreadful  truth,  the 
question  that  presses  upon  me  —  that  presses  upon  the 
national  heart  —  is,  what  is  to  become  of  us  ?  If  the 
reins  of  power  were  to  fall  into  competent  hands,  we 
could  take  courage.  But  when,  in  any  view,  we  were 
about  to  be  cast  upon  a  troubled  sea,  requiring  the 
most  skilful  and  trusted  pilots,  what  are  we  to  do  with- 
out them  ? 

Monday  morning,  I'jth.  Why  should  I  send  you 
this,  —  partly  founded  on  mistake,  for  later  telegrams 
lead  us  to  hope  that  Mr.  Seward  will  survive,  —  and 
reading,  too,  more  like  a  sermon  than  a  letter?  But  my 
thoughts  could  run  upon  nothing  else  but  these  terrible 
things  j  and,  sitting  at  my  desk,  I  let  my  pen  run,  not 
merely  dash  down  things  on  the  paper,  as  would  have 
been  more  natural. 

But  for  these  all-absorbing  horrors,   I  should  have 


Letters.  281 

written  you  somewhat  about  the  Convention.  It  was 
certainly  a  grand  success.  I  regretted  only  one  thing, 
and  that  was  that  the  young  men  went  away  grieved 
and  sad. 

...  I  think,  too,  that  what  they  asked  was  reason- 
able. That  is,  if  both  wings  were  to  fly  together,  and 
bear  on  the  body,  no  language  should  have  been  re- 
tained in  the  Preamble  which  both  parties  could  not 
agree  to. 

But  no  more  now.     Love  to  your  wife  and  A. 
Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  May  19,  1865. 

Be  it  known  to  you,  my  objurgatory  friend,  that  I 
have  finished  a  sermon  this  very  evening,  —  a  sermon  of 
reasonings,  in  part,  upon  this  very  matter  on  which  you 
speak;  that  is,  the  difference  of  opinion  in  the  Con- 
vention. 

"Prove  all  things;  hold  fast  that  which  is  good." 
Radicalism  and  Conservatism.  The  Convention  took 
the  ground  that  both,  as  they  exist  in  our  body,  could 
work  together ;  it  accepted  large  contributions  in  money 
from  both  sides,  and  it  is  not  necessary  to  decide  which 
side  is  right,  in  order  to  see  that  a  statement  of  faith 
should  have  been  adopted  in  which  both  could  agree. 
I  was  glad,  for  my  part,  to  find  that  the  conservative 
party  was  so  strong.  I  distrust  the  radical  more  than 
I  do  the  conservative  tendencies  in  our  church ;  still  I 
hope  we  are  too  just,  not  to  say  liberal,  to  hold  that 
mere  strength  can  warrant  us  in  doing  any  wrong  to  the 
weaker  party. 


282  Letters. 

To  be  sure,  if  I  thought,  as  I  suppose and 

and do,  that  the  radical  ground  was  fatal  to  Chris- 
tianity, I  should  oppose  it  in  the  strongest  way.  But  the 
Convention  did  not  assume  that  position.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  said,  "  Let  us  co-operate ;  let  us  put  our  money 
together,  and  work  together  as  brethren."  Then  we 
should  not  have  forced  a  measure  through  to  the  sore 
hurt  and  pain  of  either  party. 

As  to  the  main  question  between  them,  —  how  Jesus  is 
to  be  regarded,  whether  simply  as  the  loftiest  imper- 
sonation of  wisdom  and  goodness,  or  as  having  a  com- 
mission and  power  to  save  beyond  that  and  different 
from  it,  —  one  may  not  be  sure.  But  of  this  I  am  sure, 
that  he  who  takes  upon  his  heart  the  living  impression 
of  that  divinest  life  and  love  is  saved  in  the  noblest 
sense.  And  I  do  not  see  but  there  is  as  much  of  this 
salvation  in  those  young  men  as  in  those  who  repel  and 
rebuke  them. 

There  !  let  that  sheet  go  by  itself.  Alas  !  the  question 
with  me  is  not  which  of  them  is  right,  but  whether  / 
am  right,  —  and  that  in  something  far  more  vital  than 
opinion.  It  does  seem  as  if  one  who  has  lived  as  long 
as  I  have,  ought  to  have  overcome  all  his  spiritual  foes ; 
but  I  do  not  find  it  so.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  were 
only  struggling  harder  and  harder  with  all  the  trying 
questions,  both  speculative  and  spiritual,  that  press  upon 
our  mortal  frame  and  fate. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  Dec.  31,  1865. 
...  I  AM  talking  of  myself,  when  I  am  thinking  more 
of  you,  and  how  it  is  with  you  in  these  winter  days,  the 


Letters^  283 

last  of  the  year.  I  hope  that  they  do  not  find  you 
oppressed  with  weakness  or  suffering;  and  if  they  do 
not,  I  am  sure  that  your  spirit  is  alert  and  happy,  and 
that  the  bright  snow-fields  and  the  lovely  meteor  of 
beauty  that  hangs  in  the  air  in  such  a  morning  as  this 
was,  are  as  charming  to  you  as  they  ever  were.  It  is  a 
delight  to  your  friends  to  know  that  all  things  lovely  are, 
if  possible,  more  lovely  to  you  than  ever.  Are  there  not 
bright  rays  shining  through  our  souls,  —  streaming  from 
the  Infinite  Light,  —  that  make  us  feel  that  they  are 
made  to  grow  brighter  and  brighter  forever?  Ah  !  our 
confidence  in  immortality  must  be  this  feeling,  and  never 
a  thing  to  be  reasoned  out  by  any  logical  processes. 

yan.  I,  1866.  I, have  stepped,  you  see,  from  the  old 
year  to  the  new.  I  wish  all  the  good  wishes  to  you,  and 
take  them  from  you  in  return  as  surely  as  if  you  uttered 
them. 

This  year  is  to  be  momentous  to  us,  if  for  no  other 
reason,  that  K.  is  to  be  married.  And  we  are  to  be  no 
more  together  much,  perhaps,  in  this  world.  It  is  an 
inconceivable  wrench  in  my  existence.  This  marrying 
is  the  cruellest  thing;  and  it  is  a  perfect  wonder  and 
mystery  of  Providence  that  parents  give  in  to  it  as 
they  do. 

To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  20,  1866. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  wonder  if  you  can  under- 
stand how  happy  I  am  in  my  nook,  —  you  who  have  so 
much  of  another  sort  of  happiness,  but  not  this,  (no 
nook  for  you  !  )  with  my  winter's  task  done,  "  with  none 
to  hurt  nor  destroy,"  that  is,  my  time,  "  in  all  the  holy 


284  Letters. 

mountain,"  that  is,  the  Taghkonic.  Dear  old  Taghkonic, 
—  quiet,  happy  valley,  —  blessed,  undisturbed  fireside,  — 
what  contrast  could  be  greater  than  New  York  to  all 
this! 

"  Ahem  !  not  so  fast,  my  fi-iend,"  say  you ;  **  other 
places  are  blessed  and  happy  besides  valleys  and  moun- 
tains." Yes,  I  know.  And  I  confess  my  late  experi- 
ence inclines  me  to  think  that,  for  the  mind's  health  and 
sharpening,  cities  are  desirable  places  to  be  in,  for  a  part 
of  the  year,  notwithstanding  all  the  notwithstandings. 
Of  course,  strong  and  collected  thought  works  free  and 
clear  everywhere,  or  tends  that  way ;  but  it  did  seem  to 
me  that  the  whirl  of  the  great  maelstrom  left  but  few 
people  in  a  condition  to  think,  or  to  form  well-considered 
opinions,  or  to  meditate  much  upon  anything.  Yes,  I 
know  it,  — 

"  The  mind  is  its  own  place," 

(nothing  was  ever  better  said),  and  it  may  be  fretted  and 
frittered  away  to  nothing  in  country  quiet,  and  it  may 
be  strong  and  calm  and  full  in  the  city  throng. 

And  more  and  more  do  I  feel  that  this  nature  of  mine 
is  the  deep  ground-warrant  for  faith  in  God  and  immor- 
tality. Everywhere  in  the  creation  there  is  a  proportion 
between  means  and  ends,  —  between  all  natures  and 
their  destinies.  And  can  it  be  that  my  soul,  which,  in 
its  few  days'  unfolding,  is  already  stretching  out  its  hands 
to  God  and  to  eternity,  and  which  has  all  its  being  and 
welfare  wrapped  up  in  those  sublime  verities,  is  made 
to  strive  and  sigh  for  them  in  vain,  to  stretch  out  its 
hands  to  —  nothing  ? 

This  day  rises  upon  us  fair  and  beautiful,  —  the  pre- 


Letters.  285 

cursor,  I  believe,  of  endless  days.  If  not,  I  would  say 
with  Job,  "  Let  it  be  darkness ;  let  not  God  regard  it 
from  above,  neither  let  the  light  shine  upon  it ;  for  dark- 
ness and  the  shadow  of  death  stain  it."  But  what  a  dif- 
ferent staining  was  upon  it  this  morning  !  As  I  looked 
out  upon  the  mountain  just  before  sunrise,  it  showed 
Uke  a  mountain-rose  blossoming  up  out  of  the  earth,  — 
covered  all  over  with  the  deepest  rose-color.  .  .  . 
Ever  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

Sheffield,  March  12,  1866. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  should  like  to  know  whether 
you  propose,  from  your  own  pen,  to  provide  me  with  all 
my  reading.  Look  which  way  I  will,  —  towards  the 
"  Inquirer,"  the  "  Monthly,"  or  the  "  Examiner,"  —  and 
H.  W.  B.  is  coming  at  me  with  an  article,  and  some- 
times with  both  hands  full.  You  must  write  like  a  horse 
in  full  gallop.  And  yet  you  don't  seem  to.  Those 
articles  in  the  "  Examiner,"  and  the  letter  in  the  "  In- 
quirer," seem  to  be  thoroughly  well  considered;  the 
breadth  of  view  in  them,  the  penetration,  the  candor  and 
fairness,  the  sound  judgment,  please  me  exceedingly. 
Only  one  thing  I  questioned ;  and  that  is,  putting  the 
plea  for  universal  suffrage  on  the  ground  that  it  is  educa- 
tion for  the  people.  One  might  ask  if  it  were  well  to  put 
a  ship  in  the  hands  of  the  crew  because  it  would  be  a 
good  school  for  them.  And  looking  at  our  popular 
elections,  one  may  doubt  whether  they  are  a  good 
school.  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  that  if  the  people 
could  consent  that  only  property  holders  who  could  read 


286  Letters. 

and  write  should  vote,  it  would  be  better.  But  they  will 
not  consent ;  we  are  on  the  popular  tide,  and  suffrage 
must  be  universal,  and  the  freedmen  eventually  must 
and  will  have  the  franchise. 

But  with  the  general  strain  of  your  writing  I  agree 
entirely.  What  you  say  of  the  exceptional  character  of 
the  Southern  treason  is  true,  and  it  has  not  been  so  dis- 
tinctly nor  so  well  said  before.  I  had  thought  the  same 
myself,  and,  of  course,  you  must  be  right !  Yet  we  must 
take  care  lest  the  concession  go  too  far.  Treason  must 
forever  be  branded  as  the  greatest  of  crimes.  It  aims 
not  to  murder  a  man,  but  a  people.  And  as  to  opinion 
and  conscience,  I  suppose  all  traitors  have  an  opinion 
and  a  conscience. 

I  have  read  this  time  the  whole  of  the  "  Examiner," 
which  I  seldom  do.  It  is  all  very  good  and  satisfactory. 
Osgood's  article  on  Robertson  is  excellent;  it  appre- 
ciates him  and  his  time.  One  laments  that  his  mind  had 
so  hard  a  lot ;  but  every  real  man  must,  in  one  way  or 
another,  fight  a  great  battle.  .  .  .  Especially  I  feel  in- 
debted to  Abbot's  article.  Truly  he  says,  that  the  great 
question  of  the  coming  days  is,  —  theism,  or  atheism  ? 
Not  whether  Jesus  is  our  Master,  the  chief  among  men, 
but  whether  the  God  in  whom  Jesus  believed  really 
exists;  and,  by  consequence,  whether  the  immortality 
which  lay  open  to  his  vision  is  but  a  dream  of  weary 
and  burdened  humanity?  Herbert  Spencer  believes  in 
no  such  God  and  Father,  and  his  religion,  which  he 
vaunts  so  much,  is  but  a  hard  and  cold  abstraction.  On 
other  subjects  he  is  a  great  writer ;  and  in  his  volume  of 
essays  there  is  not  one  which  is  not  marked  with  strong 
and  original  thought.  It  is  a  prodigious  intellect,  cer- 
tainly, and  struggling  hard  with  the  greatest  questions. 


Letters.  287 

May  it  find  its  way  out  to  light !    Thus  far  its  light  is,  to 
my  thinking,  the  profoundest  darkness. 
With  our  house's  love  to  your  house. 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  March  28,  1866. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  To-day  I  am  seventy-two  years 
old.  If  I  write  to  any  one  to-day,  it  must  be  to  some 
one  whose  friendship  is  nearly  as  old  as  myself.  Look- 
ing about  me,  I  find  no  such  one  but  you.  Fifty  years 
I  have  known  you.  Fifty  years  ago,  and  more,  I  saw 
you  in  your  father's  house ;  and  charming  as  you  were 
to  my  sight  then,  you  have  never  —  youth's  loveliness 
set  at  defiance  —  been  less  so  since.  Forty  years  I 
think  I  have  known  you  well.  Thirty  years  we  have 
hten  friends ;  and  that  word  needs  no  epithet  nor  super- 
lative to  make  it  precious. 

This  morning  I  called  my  wife  to  come  and  sit  down 
by  me,  saying,  "  I  will  read  you  an  old  man's  Idyl." 
And  I  read  that  in  the  March  number  of  the  "  Atlantic." 
I  believe  Holmes  wrote  it ;  but  whoever  did,  it  is  beau- 
tiful, and  more  than  that  it  was  to  us  —  for  it  was  true. 

The  greatest  disappointment  that  I  meet  in  old  age  is 
that  I  am  not  so  good  as  I  expected  to  be,  nor  so  wise. 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  was  never  so  dissatisfied 
with  myself  as  I  am  now.  It  seems  as  if  it  could  not  be 
a  right  state  of  things.  My  ideal  of  old  age  has  been 
something  very  different.  And  yet  seventy  years  is  still 
within  the  infancy  of  the  immortal  life  and  progress. 
Why  should  it  not  say  with  the  Apostle,  "  Not  as  though 


288  Letters. 

I  had  attained,  neither  were  already  perfect."  I  can 
say  with  him,  in  some  respects,  "  I  have  fought  a  good 
fight."  I  have  fought  through  early  false  impressions  of 
religion.  I  have  fought  through  many  life  problems.  I 
have  fought,  in  these  later  years,  through  Mansel  and 
Herbert  Spencer,  as  hard  a  battle  as  I  have  ever  had. 
But  I  have  come,  tlirough  all,  to  the  most  rooted  convic- 
tion of  the  Infinite  Rectitude  and  Goodness.  Nothing, 
I  think,  can  ever  shake  me  from  this, — that  all  is  well, 
ond  shall  be  forever.  \i]\aX.QYex  becomes  oivixe.  .  .  . 
Ever  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

Sheffield,  y^/y  g,  1866. 

Dear  Friend,  —  I  am  etonne,  as  the  French  have  it ; 
at  least  Moliere  and  Corneille  —  whom  I  have  been  read- 
ing by  and  large  of  late,  having  read  all  the  new  things 
I  could  get  hold  of — are  continually  having  their  per- 
sonages etojined.  Or,  I  feel  like  Dominie  Sampson,  and 
say,  "  Pro-di-gi-ous  !  "  Not  as  he  said  it  to  Meg  Merri- 
lies,  but  rather  to  Miss  Julia  Mannering,  when  he  was 
confounded  with  her  vivacity.  What !  two  letters  to  my 
one  !     I  do  beheve  you  are  going  to  be  literary. 

And  then,  —  was  ever  seen  such  an  ambitious  wo- 
man !  Reading  Mill,  and  going  to  read  Herbert  Spencer  ! 
And  I  suppose  Kant  will  come  next.  But  bravo  !  I  say. 
I  am  very  much  pleased  with  you.  And  don't  say,  "  I 
wish,  —  but  what's  the  use!"  You  are  through  with 
the  great  absorbing  mother's  cares,  and  can  undertake 
studies,  and  I  believe  there  is  1^0  study  so  worthy  of  our 
attention  as  our  literature.     I  confess  that  I  have  come 


Letters.  289 

to  a  somewhat  new  thought  of  this  matter  of  late.  What 
is  there  on  the  earth  upon  which  we  stand,  —  what  is 
there  that  offers  to  help  us,  to  lift  and  build  us  up,  that 
can  compare  with  the  productions  of  the  greatest  minds 
which  are  gathered  up  in  our  literature  ?  Whether  we 
would  study  human  nature  or  the  Nature  Divine, — 
whether  we  would  study  religion,  science,  nature  in  the 
world  around  us,  in  the  life  within  us,  —  these  are  the 
lights  that  shine  upon  our  path.  For  those  who  have 
time  to  read,  it  seems  a  deplorable  mistake  not  to  turn 
their  thoughts  distinctly  to  what  the  greatest  minds  have 
said ;  that  is,  upon  as  many  subjects  as  they  can  com- 
pass. 

If  I  were  to  undertake  anything  in  the  way  of  edu- 
cation, I  would  set  up  in  New  York  an  Institute  of 

English  Literature.     I  do  not  know  but might  do 

something  of  the  kind,  —  have  a  house  and  receive 
classes  that  should  come  once  or  twice  in  a  week  and 
read  in  the  mean  time  under  her  direction,  and  teach 
them  by  reading  to  them,  by  commenting,  talking,  point- 
ing out  and  opening  up  to  them  the  best  things  in  the 
best  authors,  the  poets,  the  essayists,  the  historians,  the 
fiction-writers,  and  thus  making  them  acquainted  with 
the  finest  productions  of  the  English  mind  ;  and,  what  is 
better,  inspiring  them  with  an  enthusiasm  and  taste  for 
pursuing,  for  reading  such  things,  instead  of  sensation 
novels  and  such  stuff. 

Moliere  and  Corneille  have  struck  me  much  on  this 
reading,  —  the  first  with  the  tenuity  of  his  thought,  the 
slender  thread  on  which  he  weaves  his  entertaining  and 
life-like  drama,  making  it  to  live  through  the  ages  sim- 
ply by  sticking  to  nature,  making  his  personages  speak 
so  naturally;  and  the  second,  with  the  real  dramatic 

19 


290  Letters. 

grandeur  of  his  genius.  I  feel  that  I  have  never  done 
justice  to  Corneille  before,  I  have  been  so  dissatisfied 
with  the  formal  rhyme,  the  want  of  the  natural  dra- 
matic play  of  language  in  his  work,  the  stilted  rhetoric. 
And  when  I  heard  Rachel  in  the  Cid,  I  thought,  by  the 
rapid,  undramatic  way  in  which  she  hurried  through  his 
declamations,  while,  in  a  few  exclamatory  bursts,  she 
swept  everything  before  her,  that  she  justified  my  criti- 
cism. But  this  was  the  misfortune  of  Corneille ;  he 
walked  in  shackles  imposed  by  the  taste  of  his  time. 
Yet  it  was  a  lofty  stride.  I  am  particularly  struck  with 
his  grand  moral  ideals.  I  wish  I  had  a  good  life  of  him. 
He  must  have  been  a  good  man.  Like  Beethoven  and 
Michael  Angelo,  he  does  not  seem  to  have  liked  flattery, 
court,  or  ceremony.  But  I  guess  that  is  the  case  with 
most  men  of  the  higher  genius.  .  .  . 

As  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

Sheffield,  Aug.  27, 1866. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  It  is  some  time  since  I  have 
written  to  you,  and  I  am  almost  afraid  you  are  glad  of 
it,  not  having  to  answer.  You  must  acknowledge,  how- 
ever, that  I  have  always  offered  you  the  easiest  terms  of 
exchange ;  two  for  one,  three,  four,  anything  you  liked. 
...  I  have  been  lately  with  Mr.  Bryant,  in  his  great 
affliction,  staying  with  my  sisters,  who  occupy  one  of  his 
cottages,  but  spending  all  the  time  I  could  with  him. 
It  was  very  sad,  —  talking  upon  many  things  as  we  did, 
and  much  upon  those  things  that  were  pressing  upon 
his  mind,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  losing  his  chief  earthly 


Letters.  291 

treasure.  His  wife  was  that  to  him,  by  her  simplicity, 
her  simple  truthfulness,  her  perfect  sincerity  and  heart- 
earnestness,  latterly  of  a  very  religious  character,  and 
by  her  good  judgment  also ;  he  told  me  that  he  always 
consulted  her  upon  everything  he  pubHshed,  and  found 
that  her  opinion  was  always  confirmed  by  that  of  the 
public,  that  is,  as  to  the  relative  merit  of  his  writings. 
He  was  bound  to  her  the  more,  because  his  ties  of  close 
affection  with  others  are  so  very  few.  Sometimes  he 
could  not  repress  his  tears  in  our  talking ;  and  they  told 
me  that  in  the  morning,  when  he  went  to  her  bedside, 
he  often  sat  weeping,  saying,  "  You  have  been  suffering 
all  night,  and  I  have  been  sleeping."  In  the  last  days 
she  longed  to  depart,  and  often  said  to  him,  "  You  must 
let  me  go  ;  I  want  to  go."  And  so  she  went,  peacefully 
to  her  rest. 

We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  visit  from  Mr.  R.  .  .  . 
His  visits  are  always  a  great  pleasure  to  us,  both  for  the 
talk  we  have,  and  the  music.  It  is  really  a  great  thing 
to  know  anything  as  he  knows  music.  As  I  listened  to 
him  last  evening,  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  I  knew 
nothing  as  he  knows  that,  and  thinking  that  if  there  are 
infant  schools  in  the  next  world,  I  should  certainly  be 
put  into  one  of  them. 

I  hope  the  weather  will  allow  you  to  sit  often  on  the 
piazza  in  the  coming  month.  It  is  what  we  have  not 
been  able  to  do  in  the  present  month  at  all,  —  by  a  fire, 
rather,  in  the  parlor,  half  the  time. 

.  .  .  With   our  affectionate   remembrances  to  those 
around  you,  hold  me  to  be,  as  ever. 
Yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 


292  Letters. 


To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

St.  David's,  Oct.  28,  1866. 

Dearest  Molly,  —  I  have  the  pleasure  to  be  seated 
at  my  desk  to  write  to  you,  in  my  new  gown  and  slip- 
pers, and  with  my  new  sermon,  finished,  before  me.  A 
"combination  and  a  form,"  indeed,  but  I  say  no  more. 
" But  how  is  the  sermon?"  you  '11  say.  Why,  as  inimita- 
ble as  the  writer.  But  really,  I  think  it  is  worth  some- 
thing. I  did  think,  indeed,  when  I  took  my  pen,  that 
I  could  write  a  stronger  argument  for  immortality  than  I 
ever  saw,  that  is,  in  any  one  sermon  or  thesis.  And 
if  I  have  failed  entirely,  and  shall  come  to  think  so,  as  is 
very  Hkely,  it  will  be  no  worse,  doubtless,  than  my  pre- 
sumption deserved.  You  and  K.,  who  are  satisfied  with 
your  spiritual  instincts,  would  think  it  no  better,  proba- 
bly, than  a  belt  of  sand  to  bolster  up  a  mountain. 
Well,  every  one  must  help  himself  as  he  can.  This 
meditation  certainly  has  strengthened  my  own  faith  in 
the  immortal  life. 

I  should  like  to  go  to  church  with  you  this  morning, 
where  you  are  probably  going ;  but  the  places  are  very 
few  where  I  should  want  to  go.  More  and  more  do  all 
public  services  dissatisfy  me,  —  all  devout  utterances,  my 
own  included.  Communion  with  the  Highest,  with  the 
Unseen  and  Unspeakable,  seems  to  me  to  consist  of 
breathings,  not  words,  and  requires  a  freedom  of  all 
thoughts  and  feelings,  —  of  awe  and  wonder,  of  adora- 
tion and  thanksgiving,  of  meditations  and  of  stirrings  of 
the  deeps  within  us,  such  as  can  with  difficulty  be  brought 
into  a  regular  prayer. 


Letters.  293 

To  the  Same. 

Nov.  21, 1866. 
The  last  "  Register "  has  a  sermon  in  it  of  Abbot's 
upon  the  Syracuse  Conference,  which  I  thought  so  ex- 
cellent, that  I  told  the  editor  it  was  itself  worth  a  quar- 
ter's payment.  Your  mother  admires  it,  too.  Though 
she  has  no  sympathy,  as  you  well  know,  with  Abbot's 
Left- Wing  views,  her  righteous  nature  warmly  takes  part 
with  his  argument.  The  fact  is,  the  Conference  is  wrong. 
If  it  expects  the  young  men  to  act  with  it,  it  should  adopt 
a  platform  on  which  they  can  conscientiously  and  com- 
fortably stand.  The  conduct  of  the  majority,  in  my 
opinion,  is  inconsistent  and  ungenerous.  Either  take 
ground  upon  which  all  can  stand,  —  and  I  think  there 
is  such  ground,  —  or  else  say  to  the  ultra-liberals,  "  We 
cannot  consent  that  any  part  of  our  common  means 
shall  be  used  for  the  spread  of  your  views,  influence,  and 
preaching,  and  we  must  part." 

To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  March  20,  1867. 
Come  up  here,  my  anxious  friend,  and  I  '11  read  my 
Concio  to  you ;  for  it  is  written,  as  I  preferred  to  do, 
before  the  warm  and  cold,  wet  and  dry  meslin  of  April 
weather  comes,  which  always  breaks  me  up  in  my 
studies.  I  will  read  it  to  you,  and  I  rather  think  you 
will  like  it.  .  .  .  But  do  not  make  yourself  uneasy. 
There  will  be  nothing  in  the  address  of  what  you  call  "  a 
defection  to  the  radical  side,"  simply  because,  in  opin- 
ion, I  cannot  take  that  ground.  I  do  not  and  cannot 
give  up  the  miraculous  element  in  Christianity.     But  I 


294  Letters. 

embrace  our  whole  denomination  in  my  sympathies,  and 
do  not  think  our  differences  so  important  as  you  do. 
That  religion  has  its  roots  in  our  nature,  if  that  is  radi- 
calism, I  strongly  hold  and  always  have.  And  in  its  de- 
velopment and  culture  I  have  never  given  that  exclusive 
place  to  Christianity  that  many  do.  I  confess  that  I 
always  disliked  and  resisted  the  utterances  of  the  ex- 
treme conservatives  on  this  point,  more  than  those  of 
their  opponents.  So  you  see  that  M.  was  mainly  right. 
And  certainly  I  think  the  minority  in  the  Conference 
has  had  hard  measure  from  the  majority ;  and  I  liked 
Abbot's  sermon  as  much  as  you  heard  I  did. 
Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

St.  David's,  April  14,  1867. 

Dear  Friend,  —  Why  should  I  write  to  you  about 
the  things  you  speak  of  in  your  letter  which  crossed 
mine  ?  How  vain  to  attempt  to  discuss  such  matters  on 
note-paper ! 

But,  without  discussing,  I  will  tell  you,  in  few  words, 
what  I  think. 

The  vitality  of  the  Christian  religion  lies  deeper  than 
the  miraculous  element  in  it.  The  miraculous  is  but  an 
attestation  to  that.  That  is  authority  to  me.  The  au- 
thority of  God  is  more  clearly  and  unquestionably  re- 
vealed to  me,  than  in  anything  else,  in  the  inborn 
spiritual  convictions  of  my  nature,  without  which,  indeed, 
I  could  not  understand  Christianity,  nor  anything  else 
religious.  These  convictions  accord  with  the  deepest 
trutlfs  of  Christianity,  else  I  could  not  receive  it.  Jesus 
has  strengthened,  elevated,  and  purified  these  natural 


Letters.  295 

convictions  in  such  a  way,  —  by  such  teachings,  by  such 
a  life,  by  such  an  unparalleled  beauty  of  character,  — that 
I  believe  God  has  breathed  a  grace  into  his  soul  that  he 
never  has  [given]  in  the  same  measure  and  perfection 
to  any  other.  Effects  must  have  causes,  and  such  an 
effect  seems  to  me  fairly  to  indicate  such  a  cause. 

But  there  are  those  who  cannot  take  this  view ;  who 
look  upon  the  gospel  as  simply  the  best  exposition  of 
natural  religion  ever  given,  without  any  other  breath  of 
inspiration  upon  the  record  than  such  as  was  breathed 
upon  the  pages  of  Plato  or  Epictetus.  Now,  if  they 
went  further,  and  disowned  the  very  spirit  of  Jesus,* 
rejected  the  very  essence  of  the  gospel,  certainly  they 
would  not  be  Christians.  But  this  thiey  do  not ;  on  the 
contrary,  they  reverently  and  heartily  accept  it,  and 
seek  to  frame  their  lives  upon  this  model.  Am  I  to 
hold  such  persons  as  outcasts  from  the  Christian  fold, 
to  refuse  them  my  sympathy,  to  accord  them  only  my 
"pity"?    Certainly,  I  can  take  no  such  ground. 

The  peculiarities  of  certain  individuals  —  the  "  cold  ab- 
stractions "  of  one,  and  the  rash  utterances  of  another  — 
have  nothing  essentially  to  do  with  the  case ;  nor  has 
the  hurt  they  may  be  thought  to  do  to  our  Unitarian 
cause  anything  to  do  with  the  essential  truth  of  things. 
Nor  do  I  know  that  extreme  Radicalism  does  us  any 
more  harm  than  extreme  Conservatism.  I  belong  to 
neither  extreme  ;  and  my  business  is,  without  regard  to 
public  cause  or  private  reputation,  to  keep,  as  far  as  I 
can,  my  own  mind  right. 

The  fact  is,  you  are  so  conservative  on  every  subject, 
—  society,  politics,  medicine,  religion,  —  that  it  is  very 
difficult  for  you  to  do  justice  to  the  radical  side.  •  But 
consider  that  such  men  as  Martineau,  Bartol,  Stebbins, 


296  Letters. 

Ames,  and  Abbot  are  mainly  on  that  side,  and  that  it 
will  not  do  to  cast  about  scornful  or  pitying  words  con- 
cerning such.     As  to ,  I  give  him  up  to  you,  for  I 

don't  like  his  writing  any  better  than  you  do. 

I  think  the  great  Exposition  which  you  are  soon  to 
see  may  give  you  a  liberalizing  hint.  There,  the  indus- 
try of  all  nations  will  be  exhibited.  All  are  bent,  hon- 
estly and  earnestly,  upon  one  point,  —  the  development 
of  the  human  energies  in  that  direction.  And  it  will 
infer  nothing  against  their  good  character,  or  their  titles 
to  sympathy  and  respect,  that  they  differ  more  or  less  with 
regard  to  the  modes  and  means  of  arriving  at  the  end. 

Well,  you  will  go  before  I  come  to  New  York.     God 
bless  and  keep  you,  and  bring  you  safely  back  1 
Ever  your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

There  are  some  passages  in  an  unpublished 
sermon,  preached  by  my  father  at  Church  Green, 
in  1858,  which  I  w^ill  quote  presently,  as  illustra- 
tive of  the  same  tone  of  thought  shown  in  these 
letters.  His  clinging  to  the  miraculous  element 
in  the  life  of  Jesus,  while  refusing  to  base  any 
positive  authority  upon  it,  is  equally  character- 
istic of  him,  arising  from  the  caution,  at  once 
reverent  and  intellectual,  which  made  him  ex- 
tremely "slow  to  remove  any  belief,  consecrated 
by  time  and  affection,  till  it  was  proved  false  and 
dangerous,  and  from  his  thorough  conviction  that 
every  man  stands  or  falls  by  so  much  of  the  Infi- 
nite Light  and  Love  as  he  is  able  to  receive 
directly  into  his  being.     He  was  conservative  by 


Letters.  297 

feeling,  and   radical   by  thought,   and   the   two 
wrought  in  him  a  grand  charity  of  judgment,  far 
above  what  is  ordinarily  called  toleration. 
These  are  the  extracts  referred  to :  — 

"  Society  as  truly  as  nature,  nay,  as  truly  as  the  holy 
church,  is  a  grand  organism  for  human  culture.  I  say 
emphatically,  —  as  truly  as  the  holy  church ;  for  we 
are  prone  to  take  a  narrow  view  pf  man's  spiritual 
growth,  and  to  imagine  Ijhat  there  is  nothing  to  help  it, 
out  of  the  pale  of  Christianity.  We  make  a  sectarism 
of  our  Christian  system,  even  as  the  Jews  did  of  the 
Hebrew,  though  ours  was  designed  to  break  down  all 
such  narrow  bounds ;  so  that  I  should  not  wonder  if 
some  one  said  to  me,  —  *  Are  you  preaching  the  Chris- 
tian religion  when  you  thus  speak  of  nature  and  society  ? ' 
And  I  answer,  '  No ;  I  am  speaking  of  a  religion  elder 
than  the  Christian.'  .  .  . 

"  There  was  a  righteousness,  then,  before  and  beside 
the  Christian.  Am  I  to  be  told  that  Socrates  and  Plato, 
and  Marcus  Antoninus  and  Boethius,  had  no  right  cul- 
ture, no  religion,  no  rectitude?  and  they  were  cast 
upon  the  bosom  of  nature  and  of  society  for  their  in- 
struction, and  of  that  '  light  which  lighteth  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world.'  " 


To  his  Daughter  Mary. 

St.  David's,  Sept.  10,  1867. 
.  .  .  Think  of  my  having  read  the  whole  of  Voltaire's 
"  Henriade  "  last  week  !     But  think  especially  of  eminent 
French  critics,  and  Marraontel  among  them  (in  the  pref- 
ace), praising  it  to  the  stars,  saying  that  some  of  the 


298  Letters. 

passages  are  superior  to  Homer  and  Virgil !  However, 
it  is  really  better  than  I  expected,  and  I  read  on,  partly 
from  curiosity  and  partly  for  the  history.  The  French 
would  have  been  very  glad  to  find  it  an  epic  worthy 
of  the  name,  for  they  have  n't  one.  Voltaire  frankly 
confesses  that  the  French  have  not  a  genius  for  great 
poetry,  —  too  much  in  love,  he  says,  With  exactness  and 
elegance. 

I  have  —  read  —  through  —  "  Very  Hard  Cash ;  "  and 
very  hard  it  is  to  read.  Reade  has  some  pretty  remarka- 
ble powers,  —  powers  of  description  and  of  characteriza- 
tion ;  but  the  moment  he  touches  the  social  relations, 
and  should  be  dramatic,  he  is  struck  with  total  incapacity. 
Indeed,  what  one  novelist  has  been  perfect  in  dialogue, 
making  each  person  say  just  what  he  should  and  nothing 
else,  but  glorious  Sir  Walter? 

To  the  Same. 

Sheffield,  Sept.  20,  1867. 

Dear  Mary,  —  "  Live  and  learn."  Next  time,  if  it 
ever  come,  I  shall  put  up  peaches  in  a  little  box  by 
themselves.  But  the  fact  is,  peaches  can't  travel,  unless 
they  are  plucked  so  early  as  nearly  to  spoil  them  of  all 
their  "  deliciarum,"  —  which  we  are  enjoying  in  those 
we  eat  here.  And  Bryant  with  us,  —  fruity  fellow  that 
he  is  !  —  I  am  glad  we  have  some  good  fruit  to  give  him. 
Yesterday  we  had  a  very  good  cantelope,  and  pears  are 
on  hand  all  the  while.  I  am  sorry  that  I  could  not  get 
the  pears  to  you  just  in  eating  condition,  and  the  Hurl- 
but  apples  too ;  but  they  '11  all  come  right. 

Yes,  fruity,  —  that 's  what  Bryant  is ;  but  rather  of  the 
quality  of  dried  fruits,  —  not  juicy,  still  less  gushing,  but 


Letters.  299 

with  a  good  deal  of  concentrated  essence  in  him  (rather 
"frosty,  but  kindly"),  exuding  often  in  little  bits  of 
poetical  quotations,  fitly  brought  in  from  everywhere, 
and  of  which  there  seems  to  be  no  end  in  his  memory. 

The  woods  are  beginning  to  show  lovely  bits  of  color, 
but  the  great  burden  of  leaves  remains  untouched. 
Bryant  and  I  walked  out  to  the  Pine  Grove,  and  on  to 
Sugar-Maple  Hill.  Your  mother  admires  him  for  his 
much  walking ;  but  /  insist  that  he  is  possessed  and 
driven  about  by  a  demon.  ...  By  the  bye,  just  keep 
that  "  article  "  for  me  ;  I  have  no  other  copy.  Bryant 
commended  it,  and  said  he  thought  the  argument 
against  the.  Incomprehensible 's  being  totally  unintelligi- 
ble, was  new. 

To  his  Daughter,  Mrs.  C. 

St,  David's,  July  22,  1868. 
Dear  Kate,  —  I  am  going  to  have  no  more  to  do 
with  the  weather.  You  need  n't  expostulate  with  me. 
It 's  no  use  talking.  My  mind  is  made  up.  You  may 
tell  M.  so.  It  will  be  hardest  for  her  to  believe  it.  She 
has  partaken  with  me  in  that  infirmity  of  noble  minds, 
—  a  desire  to  look  through  the  haze  of  this  mundane 
atmospheric  environment,  and  predict  the  future.  But, 
alas  !  there  is  an  infirmity  of  vision ;  we  see  through  a 
glass  darkly.  We  can't  see  through  a  millstone.  The 
firmament  has  been  very  like  that,  for  some  days,  —  all 
compact  with  clouds.  We  thought  something  was 
grinding  for  us.  "  Now  it  is  coming  !  "  we  said  last 
evening.  But  no.  It  was  no  go,  —  or  no  come,  rather. 
And   this   morning,  at   the  breakfast  table,  sitting  up 


300  Letters. 

there,  clothed,  and  in  my  right  mind,  I  said  to  my 
sister,  "  I  am  not  a-going  to  predict  about  the  weather 
any  more  ! " 

Ask  my  dear  M.,  pray  her,  to  try  to  come  up  to  the 
height  of  that  great  resolution.  I  know  the  difficulty,  — 
the  strain  to  which  it  will  put  all  her  faculties  j  but  ask 
her,  implore  her,  to  try. 


To  his  Daughters,  then  living  in  London  Terrace, 
New  York. 

1868. 

St.  David's  sends  a  challenge  to  all  the  Terrace  birds. 

Show  us  a  bird  that  sings  in  the  night.  We  have  a 
nightingale,  —  a  bird  that  has  sung,  for  two  evenings  past, 
between  ten  and  twelve,  as  gayly  as  the  nightingales  of 
Champel.  It  is  the  cat-bird,  the  same  that  comes  flying 
and  pecking  at  our  windows.  What  has  come  over  the 
little  creature?  I  suppose  the  season  of  nest-building 
and  incubation  is  one  of  great  excitement,  —  the  bird's 
honeymoon.  And  then,  the  full  moon  shining  down, 
and  the  nights  warm  as  summer,  and  thoughts  of  the 
nice  new  house  and  the  pretty  eggs,  and  the  chicks  that 
are  coming,  —  it  could  not  contain  itself. 

Well,  as  I  sit  in  my  porch  and  look  at  the  birds,  they 
seem  to  me  a  revelation,  as  beautiful,  if  not  so  profound, 
as  the  Apocalypse.  What  but  Goodness  could  have 
made  a  creature  at  once  so  beautiful  and  so  happy? 
Mansel  and  Spencer  may  talk  about  the  incomprehensi- 
bility of  the  First  Cause ;  I  say,  here  is  manifestation. 
The  little  Turdus  felivox,  —  oho  !  ye  ignorant  children, 
that  is  he  of  the  cat,  —  it  sits  on  the  bough,  ten  feet 
from  me,  and  sings  and  trills  and  whisdes,  and  sends 


Letters.  301 

out  little  jets  of  music,  little  voluntaries,  as  if  it  were 
freely  and  irrepressibly  singing  a  lovely  hymn. 

This  morning  there  is  the  slightest  little  drizzle,  a 
mere  tentative  experimenting  towards  rain,  no  more,  — 
I  keep  to  facts.  Well,  all  the  township  is  saying,  no 
doubt,  "  Now  it  is  coming  !  "  Catch  me  a-doing  so ! 
I  was  left  to  say,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  "  If  C.  had 
mowed  his  meadow  two  or  three  days  ago,  he  would 
have  got  it  all  in  dry."  I  feel  a  little  guilty.  I  am 
afraid  that  incautious  observation  was  the  nuance  of  the 
shadow  of  an  intimation  of  an  opinion,  bearing  the 
faintest  adumbration  of  a  prediction.  I  am  sorry  for 
it.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  ought  to  have  kept  my  lips  shut. 
I  ought  to  have  put  sealing-wax  upon  them  the  mo- 
ment I  got  up.  I  won't,  —  I  won't  speak  one  word 
again. 

Yours,  wet  or  dry, 

O.  D 

To   William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

St.  David's, /«/j/  27,  1868. 
Friend  Bryant,  —  I  am  a  Quaker.  I  have  just  joined 
the  sect.  Thee  won't  believe  it,  because  thee  Avill  think  I 
lack  the  calmness  and  staidness  that  fit  me  for  it.  But 
I  am  a  Quaker  of  the  Isaac  T.  Hopper  sort  j  though, 
alas  !  here  the  resemblance  fails  also,  for  I  do  no  good. 
Dear  me  !  I  wish  sometimes  that  I  could  have  been  one 
of  the  one-sided  men ;  it  is  so  easy  to  run  in  one  groove  ! 
and  it 's  all  the  fashion  in  these  days.  But,  avaunt  ex- 
pediency !  Let  me  stick  to  my  principles,  and  be  a 
rounded  mediocrity,  pelted  on  every  hand,  and  pleasing 


302  Letters. 

nobody.  By  the  bye,  Mrs.  Gibbons  ^  has  just  sent  me 
a  fine  medallion  of  her  father,  beautifully  mounted.  It 
is  a  remarkable  face,  for  its  massive  strength  and  the 
fun  that  is  lurking  in  it.  Hopper  might  have  been  a 
great  man  in  any  other  walk,  —  the  statesman's,  the  law- 
yer's ;  he  was,  in  his  own. 

...  I  want  to  say  something,  through  the  "  Post,"  of 
the  abominable  nuisance  of  the  railroad  whistle.  I  wrote 
once  while  you  were  gone,  and  Nordhofif  (how  do  you 
spell  him  ?)  did  n't  publish  my  letter,  but  only  introduced 
some  of  it  in  a  paragraph  of  his  own.  If  I  write  again, 
I  shall  want  your  imprimatur.  This  horrible  shriek, 
which  tears  all  our  nerves  to  pieces,  and  the  nerves  of 
all  the  land,  except  Cummington  and  such  lovely  retire- 
ments, is  altogether  unnecessary;  a  lower  tone  would 
answer  just  as  well.    It  does  on  the  Hudson  River  Road. 

To  his  Daughters. 

St.  David's,  Oct,  15, 1868. 
.  .  .  Your  letter  came  yesterday,  and  was  very  satis- 
factory in  the  upshot ;  that  is,  you  got  there.  But,  pest 
on  railroad  cars  !  they  are  mere  torture-chambers,  with 
the  additional  chance,  as  Johnson  said  of  the  ship,  of 
being  land-wrecked.  Some  people  like  'em,  though. 
And  there  are  dangers  everywhere.  The  other  day  — 
a  high  windy  day  —  a  party  went  to  the  mountain,  and 
had  like  to  have  been  blown  off  from  the  top.  But  they 
said  it  was  beautiful,  I  don't  doubt,  if  the  whole  bunch 
had  been  tumbled  over  and  rolled  down  to  the  bottom, 
they  would  all  have  jumped  up,  exclaiming,  "  Beautiful ! 

^  Mrs.  James  Gibbons  of  New  York,  daughter  of  Isaac  T. 
Hopper. 


Letters.  303 

beautiful !  "  People  so  like  to  have  it  thought  they  have 
had  a  good  time.  One  day  they  went  up  and  all  got  as 
wet  as  mountain  —  no,  as  marsh  —  rats;  and  that  was 
the  most  "  lovely  time  "  they  have  had  this  summer. 

Girls,  I  have  a  toothache  to-day  !  It 's  easier  now,  or 
I  should  not  be  writing.  But  pain,  what  a  thing  it  is  ! 
The  king  of  all  misery,  I  think,  is  pain.  It  is  a  part  of 
you,  and  does  n't  lie  outside ;  a  thing  to  be  met  and  mas- 
tered with  healthy  faculties.  You  can't  fight  with  it,  as 
you  can  with  poverty,  bankruptcy,  mosquitoes,  a  smoky 
chimney,  and  the  like.  I  can't  be  thankful  enough  that 
I  have  had,  through  my  life,  so  little  pain.  What  1  shall 
do  with  it,  if  it  comes,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  need  it 
for  what  Heine  speaks  of;  that  is,  to  make  me  "  a  man." 
I  am  afraid  I  am  a  chicken-hearted  fellow.  But  I  can- 
not help  thinking  that  different  constitutions  take  that 
visitation  very  differently. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  Jan.  18, 1869. 
My  Dear  Friend,  — .  .  .  It  is  the  audible,  the  uttered 
prayer,  to  which  I  feel  myself  unequal.  The  awfulness 
of  prayer  to  me  inclines  me  more  and  more  to  make  it 
silent,  speechless.  It  is  so  overwhelming,  that  I  am 
losing  all  fluency,  all  free  utterance.  What  it  is  fit  for  a 
creature  to  say  to  the  Infinite  One  —  to  that  uncompre- 
hended  Infinitude  of  Being  —  makes  me  hesitate.  My 
mind  addressing  a  fellow  mind  is  easy;  and  yet  ad- 
dressing the  highest  mind  in  the  world  would  cause  me 
anxiety.  I  should  feel  that  my  thoughts  were  too  poor 
to  express  to  him.     But  my  mind  addressing  itself,  its 


304  Letters. 

thought  and  feeling,  to  the  Infinite,  Infinite  Mind,  —  I 
faint  beneath  it.  It  is  higher  than  heaven ;  what  can 
I  do  ?  I  am  often  moved  to  say  with  Abraham,  "  Lo  ! 
now  I,  who  am  but  dust,  have  taken  upon  me  to  speak 
unto  God.  Oh  !  let  not  the  Lord  be  angry,  and  I  will 
speak."  And  indeed,  so  much /r^^m^,  —  this  implor- 
ing the  love  and  care  of  the  Infinite  Providence  and 
Love,  of  which  the  universe  is  the  boundless  and  per- 
petual evolution,  —  can  that  be  right  and  fit  ?  I  often 
recall  what  Mrs.  Dwight,  of  Stockbridge,  said  of  the 
public  devotions  of  old  Dr.  West,  —  one  of  the  most 
saintly  beings  I  ever  knew,  —  that  she  had  observed  that 
they  consisted  less  and  less  of  prayers,  and  more  and 
more  of  thanksgivings. 

Last  evening  my  wife  read  to  us  your  article  on  the 
Mission  of  America.  It  is  a  grand,  full  stream  of 
thought,  and  original,  too,  and  ought  to  have  a  wider 
flow  than  through  the  pages  of  the  "Examiner."  It 
ought  to  be  read  not  by  two  thousand,  but  by  two  mil- 
hon  persons.  I  wish  there  were  a  popular  organ,  like 
the  "Ledger"  (in  circulation),  for  the  diffusion  of  the 
best  thoughts,  where  the  best  minds  among  us  could 
speak  ^the  country  to  the  country,  for  never  was  there 
a  people  that  more  needed  to  be  wisely  spoken  to.  And 
you  are  especially  fitted  to  speak  to  it.  Your  conserva- 
tive position  in  our  Unitarian  body,  however  it  may  fare 
among  us,  would  help  you  with  the  people. 

As  to  your  position,  I  don't  know  but  I  am  as  con- 
servative as  you  are.  That  is,  I  don't  know  but  I  be- 
lieve in  the  miracles  as  much  as  you  do.  The  difference 
between  us  is,  that  I  do  not  feel  the  miraculous  to  be  so 
essential  a  part  of  Christianity.  Yet  I  see  and  feel  the 
force  of  what  you  say  about  it.    And  the  argument  is 


Letters.  305 

put  in  that  article  of  yours  with  great  weight  and  power. 
For  myself,  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  at  length  the 
authority  of  Jesus  will  be  established  on  clearer,  higher, 
more  indisputable  and  impregnable  grounds  than  any 
historic,  miraculous  facts. 


To    William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

St.  David's,  _/«;«.  26,  1869. 

...  I  AM  thankful,  every  day  of  my  life,  that  I  have 
my  own  roof  over  me,  and  can  keep  it  from  crumbling  to 
the  ground.  Do  not  be  proud,  Sir,  when  you  read  this, 
nor  look  down  from  your  lordliness,  —  of  owning  a  dozen 
houses,  and  three  of  them  your  own  to  live  in,  —  down, 
I  say,  upon  my  humble  gratitude.  Can  it  be,  by  the 
bye,  that  Cicero  had  fourteen  villas  ?  I  am  sure  Middle- 
ton  says  so.  I  should  think  they  must  have  been  four- 
teen of  what  Buckminster,  in  a  sermon,  called  "  bundles 
of  cares  and  heaps  of  vexations." 

...  I  read  a  letter  of  Cicero's  to  his  friend  Valerius, 
this  morning,  in  which  he  urges  him  to  come  and  see 
him,  saying  that  he  wants  to  have  a  pleasant  time  with 
him,  —  tecum  jocari.,  —  and  says,  "  When  you  come  this 
way,  don't  go  down  to  your  Apulia,"  —  to  wit,  Cum- 
mington.  Nam  siillo  veneris,  tanquam  Ulysses,  cognosces 
tuorum  neminem.  Now  don't  quote  Homer  to  me  when 
you  answer,  for  I  am  nearly  overwhelmed  with  my  own 
learning. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  world  here  for  the  last 
three  weeks.  Never  was  such  a  splendid  winter  season. 
I  think  it's  something  great  and  inspiring  to  see  the 
whole  broad,  bright,  white,  crystal  world,  and  the  whole 


3o6  Letters. 

horizon  round,  instead  of  looking  upon  ^brick  houses. 
But  you  will  say,  the  human  horizon  widens  in  cities. 
Yes ;  but  if  there  are  six  bright  points  in  it  you  are  for- 
tunate, while  here,  the  whole  horizon  round  is  sapphire 
and  purple  and  gold. 

Well,  peace  be  with  you  wherever  you  are,  and  with 
your  house.  My  wife  and  Mary  send  love  to  you  all,  as 
I  do,  [who]  am,  as  ever. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  his  Daughters. 

St.  David's,  Feb.  23,  1869. 

.  .  .  We  are  going  on  very  nicely,  neither  sick  nor 
sad.  Our  winter  evening  readings  have  been  very  fortu- 
nate this  season.  First,  "  Lord  Jeffrey's  Life  and  Let- 
ters," and  now,  "  Draper's  Intellectual  Development  in 
Europe."  I  had  read  it  before,  but  it  is  a  greater  book 
than  I  had  thought.  I  must  say  that  I  had  rather  pass 
my  evenings  as  we  do,  —  some  writing,  some  reading, 
then  a  quiet  game,  and  then  at  my  desk  again,  —  than 
to  take  the  chances  of  society,  in  town  or  country.  If  I 
can  get  you  to  think  as  I  do,  we  shall  pass  a  happy  Ufa 
here.  Heaven  grant  that  I  may  not  fall  into  a  life  of 
pain  !  With  our  good  spirits,  as  they  now  are,  we  every 
day  fall  into  a  quantity  of  dramatic  capers  that  are 
enough  to  make  a  cat  laugh,  —  no  bigger  animal. 

Hoping  you  may  have  as  much  folly,  —  for  what  saith 
Paley?     "He   that  is  not  a  fool  sometimes,  is  always 
one,"  —  and  wishing  you  all  merry,  I  am  as  ever, 
Your  loving  father, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  307 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  peaceful  than 
the  retirement  of  Sheffield.  Removed  from  the 
main  lines  of  traffic  and  travel,  even  now  that 
a  railroad  passes  through  it,  the  village  remains, 
as  it  has  been  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  the 
quiet  centre  of  the  quiet  farms  spread  for  four  or 
five  miles  about  it.  The  Housatonic  wanders  at 
its  own  sweet  and  lazy  will  among  the  meadows, 
turning  and  returning  upon  itself  till  it  has  loi- 
tered twenty  miles  in  crossing  the  eight-mile 
township,  but  never  turning  a  mill  or  offering 
encouragement  to  any  industry  but  that  of  the 
muskrats  who  burrow  in  its  banks,  or  the  king- 
fishers who  break  its  glassy  surface  in  pursuit  of 
their  prey.  No  busy  factories  are  there ;  no  rat- 
tle of  machinery  or  feverish  activity  of  commerce 
disturbs  the  general  placidity ;  and  the  still  val- 
ley lies  between  its  enclosing  hills  as  if  it  were, 
indeed,  that  happy  Abyssinian  vale  my  father 
fancied  it  in  his  childhood. 

The  people  share  the  calm  of  the  landscape. 
Like  many  New  England  towns  where  neither 
water-power  nor  large  capital  offers  opportunity 
for  manufactures,  and  where  farming  brings  but 
slow  returns,  the  village  has  been  gradually 
drained  of  the  greater  part  of  its  active  and  en- 
terprising younger  population,  and  is  chiefly  oc- 
cupied by  retired  and  quiet  persons  who  maintain 
a  very  gentle  stir  of  social  life,  save  for  a  month 
or  two  in  summer,  when  the  streets  brighten  with 
the  influx  of  guests  from  abroad. 


3o8  Letters. 

It  must  have  been  very  different  seventy  years 
ago.  Instead  of  three  slenderly  attended  churches, 
divided  by  infinitesimal  differences  of  creed,  and 
larger  variations  of  government  and  discipline,  all 
the  people  then  were  accustomed  to  meet  in  one 
well-filled  church ;  and  the  minister,  a  life  resi- 
dent, swayed  church  and  congregation  with  large 
and  unquestioned  rule.  There  were  several  doc- 
tors with  their  trains  of  students,  and  lawyers  of 
county  celebrity,  each  with  young  men  study- 
ing under  his  direction ;  and  all  these  made  the 
nucleus  of  a  society  that  was  both  gay  and 
thoughtful,  and  that  received  a  strong  impulse 
to  self-development  from  the  isolated  condition 
of  a  small  village  in  those  days.  Railroads  and 
telegraphs  have  changed  all  this,  and  scarcely  a 
hamlet  is  now  so  lonely  as  not  to  feel  the  great 
tides  of  the  world's  life  sweep  daily  through  it, 
bringing  polish  and  general  information  with 
them,  but  washing  away  much  of  the  racy  indi- 
viduality and  concentrated  mental  action  which 
formerly  made  the  pith  of  its  being.  Sheffield 
has  gained  in  external  beauty  and  refinement 
year  by  year,  but,  judging  from  tradition,  has 
lost  in  intellectual  force.  There  is  more  light 
reading  and  less  hard  reading,  much  more  ac- 
quaintance with  newspapers  and  magazines,  and 
less  knowledge  of  great  poets,  than  in  my  father's 
youth ;  but  his  love  for  his  birthplace  remained 
unchanged,  and  his  eyes  and  his  heart  drank 
repose  from  its  peaceful  and  familiar  beauty. 


Letters.  309 

To   William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

St.  David's,  Oct.  6,  1869. 

Dear  Bryant,  the  bountiful,  —  You  are  something 
like  grapes  yourself.  By  the  bye,  it 's  no  matter  what  you 
call  me  ;  "  my  dear  Doctor  "  is  well  enough,  if  you  can't 
do  better ;  only  "  my  dear  Sir  "  I  do  hate,  between  good 
old  friends  such  as  we  are,  as  much  as  Walter  Scott  did. 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  you  are  like  grapes  yourself, — 
fair,  round,  self-contained,  hanging  gracefully  upon  the 
life-vine,  still  full  of  sap ;  shining  under  the  covert  of 
leaves,  but  more  clearly  seen,  now  that  the  frosts  of  age 
are  descending,  and  causing  them  to  fall  away ;  while  I 
am  more  like  —  but  I  have  so  poor  an  opinion  of  my- 
self, that  I  won't  tell  you  what.  This  is  no  affected 
self-depreciation.  I  can't  learn  to  be  old,  but  am  as  full 
of  passion,  impatience,  foolishness,  blind  reachings  after 
wisdom,  as  ever.  Instance  :  I  am  angry  with  the  ex- 
pressman because  he  did  not  bring  the  grapes  to-day ; 
angry  with  the  telegraph  because  it  did  not  bring  a  de- 
spatch to  tell  how  a  sick  boy  was,  under  nine  hours.  .  .  . 

Here  I  am,  Thursday  morning,  on  a  second  sheet, 
waiting  for  the  grapes.  What  else,  in  the  mean  time, 
shall  I  entertain  you  with  ?  The  flood  !  It  has  been  pro- 
digious, the  highest  known  for  many  years ;  water,  water 
all  around,  from  beside  the  road  here  to  the  opposite 
hill.  It  is  curious  to  see  men  running  like  rats  from  the 
deluge,  up  to  their  knees  in  water,  on  returning  from  a 

common  walk  (fact,  happened  to  the  S s),  trying  to 

drive  home  one  way  and  could  n't,  —  going  round  to  a 
bridge  and  finding  that  swept  away,  —  dams  torn  down 
and  mills  toppled  over,  and  half  the  "  sure  and  firm-set 
earth  "  turned  into  water-courses  and  flood-trash.  .  .  . 


3IO  Letters. 

The  afternoon  train  has  arrived,  and  no  grapes.  Very 
angry. 

The  faithless  express,  you  see,  is  a  great  plague  to  you 
as  well  as  me ;  for  not  only  does  it  not  bring  me  the 
grapes,  but  is  the  cause  of  your  having  this  long  dawd- 
ling letter.  Why  don't  you  show  up  its  iniquities  ?  What 
is  a  "  Post "  made  and  set  up  for,  if  not,  among  other 
things,  to  bear  affiches  testifying  to  the  people  of  their 
wickedness  ?  The  express  is  the  most  slovenly  agent  and 
the  most  irresponsible  tyrant  in  the  country.  What  it 
brings  is  perhaps  ruined  by  delay,  —  plants,  for  instance. 
No  help.  "  Pay,"  it  says  to  the  station-master,  "  or 
we  don't  leave  it."  Oh,  if  I  had  the  gift  and  grace  to 
send  articles  to  the  "  Post,"  from  time  to  time,  upon 
abuses  ! 

Friday.     No  grapes.     More  angry. 

Saturday.     No  grapes.     I  'm  furious. 

This  last  was  the  record  of  the  afternoon  ;  but  in  the 
evening,  at  half-past  nine,  they  were  sent  down  from 
the  station,  —  and  in  remarkably  good  order,  consider- 
ing, and  in  quantity  quite  astonishing.  The  basket 
seemed  like  the  conjurer's  hat,  out  of  which  comes  a 
half-bushel  of  flowers,  oranges,  and  what  not.  We  are 
all  very  much  obliged  to  you ;  and,  judging  from  the 
appearance  of  the  six  heaped-up  plates,  I  am  sure,  when 
we  come  to  eat  them,  that  every  tooth  will  testify,  if  it 
does  not  speak. 

To  the  Same. 

St.  David's,  Feb.  28, 1870. 
My  Dear  Bryant,  —  The  volume  has  not  come,  but 
the  kindness  has,  and  I  will  acknowledge  the  one  with- 


Letters.  311 

out  waiting  for  the  other ;  especially  as  it  is  not  a  case 
where  one  feels  it  expedient  to  give  thanks  for  a  book 
before  he  has  read  it.  We  all  know  the  quality  of  this, 
from  passages  of  the  work  printed  in  advance.  It  will 
be  the  translation  into  English  of  the  Iliad,  I  think, 
though  not  professing  to  be  learned  in  translations  of 
Homer,  still  less  in  the  original.  \ 

I  read  your  preface  in  the  "  Post."  Nothing  could  be 
better,  unless  it  is  your  speech  at  the  Williams  dinner, 
which  was  better,  and  better  than  any  occasional  speech 
you  have  given,  me  judice. 

Great  changes  are  projected  in  Sheffield,  —  you  will 
have  to  come  and  see  them  and  us,  —  a  widening  of 
the  village  on  the  east,  towards  the  meadow  and  pine 
knoll,  and  —  what  do  you  think  ? — a  railroad  to  the  top  of 
Taghkonic  !  'T  is  even  so  —  proposed.  An  eastern  com- 
pany has  bought  the  Egremont  Hotel,  and  the  land  along 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  down  as  far  as  Spurr's  ( a 
mile),  and  they  talk  seriously  of  a  railroad.  So  the 
Taghkonic  is  to  be  made  a  watering-place,  if  the  thing 
is  feasible,  in  quite  another  sense  than  that  in  which  it 
has  long  sent  its  streams  and  cast  its  lonely  shadows 
upon  our  valley. 

We  are  having  winter  at  last,  and  our  ice-houses 
filled  with  the  best  of  ice,  and  the  prospect  is  fair  for 
the  wood-piles.  The  books  you  sent  are  turning  to 
great  account  with  us.  In  that  and  in  every  way  I  am 
obliged  to  you ;  and  am,  as  ever. 

Yours  truly, 

Orville  Dewey. 


312  Letters. 


To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

St.  David's,  Dec.  20,  1870. 
Dear  Friend,  —  I  think  I  must  take  you  into  council, 

—  not  to  sit  upon  the  case,  nor  to  get  up  a  procession, 
nor  to  have  the  bells  rung,  if  we  win  ;  but  just  to  sympa- 
thize, so  far  as  mid-life  vigor  can,  with  an  aged  couple, 
who  have  lived  together  half  a  century,  and  would  much 
rather  live  it  over  again  than  not  to  have  lived  it  at  all ; 
who  have  lived  in  that  wonderful  connection,  which 
binds  and  blends  two  wills  into  one ;  who  do  not  say 
that  no  differences  or  difficulties  have  disturbed  them, 

—  an  attainment  beyond  human  reach,  —  but  who  have 
grown  in  the  esteem  and  love  of  each  other  to  this  day 
(at  least  one  of  them  has)  ;  one  of  whom  finds  his  mate 
more  beautiful  than  when  he  married  her,  though  the 
other's  condition,  in  that  respect,  does  n't  admit  of  more 
or  less,  being  a  condition  of  obstinate  mediocrity ;  and 
who,  both  of  them,  look  with  mingled  wonder  and  grati- 
tude to  their  approaching  Golden  Wedding  Day. 

So  you  can  look  upon  us  with  pleasure,  on  the  day 
after  Christmas,  and  think  of  us  as  surrounded  by  all 
our  children  and  grandchildren.  And  that  is  all  we  shall 
make,  except  in  our  thoughts,  of  our  great  anniversary. 

Adieu.     I  shall  not  descend  in  this  letter  to  meaner 
themes,  but  with  our  love  to  you  all,  am  ever, 
Your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

From  a  Note-Book. 

April  13,  1 87 1. 

Father  Taylor,  of  Boston,  has  just  died, — a  very 
remarkable  person.     He  was  a  sailor,  and  more  than 


Letters.  3 1 3 

forty  years  ago  he  came  from  before  the  mast  into  the 
pulpit.  He  brouglit  with  him,  I  suppose,  something  of 
the  roughness  of  his  calling ;  for  I  remember  hearing 
of  his  preaching  in  the  neighborhood  of  New  Bedford 
when  I  first  went  there,  and  of  his  inveighing  against 
paid  preachers  as  wretched  hirelings,  "  rocked  upon  five 
feather-beds  to  hell."  This,  I  was  told,  was  meant  for 
me,  as  I  had  just  been  settled  upon  the  highest  salary 
ever  paid  in  those  parts.  In  after  years  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  him,  and  a  very  pleasant  and  cordial 
acquaintance  it  was.  His  preaching  improved  in  every 
way  as  he  went  on ;  the  pulpit  proved  the  best  of  rhetori- 
cal schools  for  him,  and  he  became  one  of  the  most 
powerful  and  impressive  preachers  in  the  country.  He 
was  one  of  nature's  orators,  and  one  of  the  rarest.  It 
was  said  of  him  that  he  showed  what  Demosthenes 
meant  by  "  action."  The  whole  man,  body  and  soul, 
was  not  only  in  action,  but  was  an  action  concentrated 
into  speech.  His  strongly  built  frame,  —  every  limb, 
muscle,  and  fibre,  —  his  whole  being,  spoke. 

Waldo  Emerson  took  me  to  his  chapel  the  first  time  I 
ever  heard  him  preach.  As  we  went  along,  speaking  of 
his  pathos,  he  said,  "  You  '11  have  to  guard  yourself  to 
keep  from  crying."  So  warned,  I  thought  myself  safe 
enough.  But  I  was  taken  down  at  the  very  beginning 
of  the  service.  The  prayers  of  the  congregation  were 
asked  by  the  family  of  a  young  man,  —  a  sailor,  who  had 
been  destroyed  by  a  shark  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  In 
the  prayer,  the  scene  was  touchingly  depicted,  —  how 
the  poor  youth  went  down  to  bathe  in  the  summer  sea, 
thoughtless,  unconscious  of  any  danger,  when  he  was 
seized  by  the  terrible  monster  that  lay  in  wait  for  him. 
And  then  the  preacher  prayed  that  none  of  us,  going 


314  Letters. 

down  into  the  summer  sea  of  pleasure,  might  sink  into 
the  jaws  of  destruction  that  were  opened  beneath.  I 
think  the  prayer  left  no  dry  eyes. 

Father  Taylor  was  a  man  of  large,  warm-hearted  liber- 
ality. He  was  a  Methodist ;  but  no  sect  could  hold 
him.  He  often  came  to  our  Unitarian  meetings  and 
spoke  in  them.  In  addressing  one  of  our  autumnal 
conventions  in  New  York,  I  recollect  his  congratulating 
us  on  our  freedom  from  all  trammels  of  prescription, 
creed,  and  church  order,  and  exhorting  us  to  a  corre- 
sponding wide  and  generous  activity  in  the  cause  of  re- 
ligion. He  was  always  ready  with  an  illustration,  and 
for  his  purpose  used  this  :  "  We  have  just  had  a  visit  in 
Boston,"  he  said,  "  from  an  Indian  chief  and  some  of  his 
people.  They  were  invited  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Abbot 
Lawrence.  As  Mr.  Lawrence  received  them  in  his 
splendid  parlor,  the  chief,  looking  around  upon  it,  said, 
—  'It  is  very  good ;  it  is  beautiful ;  but  I  —  I  walk 
large ;  I  go  through  the  woods  and  hunting-grounds  one 
day,  and  I  rise  up  in  the  morning  and  go  through  them 
the  next,  —  I  walk  large.'  Brethren,"  said  the  speaker, 
"  walk  large." 

Taylor's  great  heait  was  not  chilled  by  bigotry ;  neither 
was  it  by  theology,  nor  by  philosophy.  His  prayer  was 
the  breathing  of  a  child's  heart  to  an  infinitely  loving 
father ;  it  was  strangely  free  and  confiding.  I  remember 
being  in  one  of  the  early  morning  prayer-meetings  of  an 
anniversary  week  in  Boston,  and  Taylor  was  there.  As  I 
rose  to  offer  a  prayer,  I  spoke  a  few  words  upon  the  kind 
of  approach  which  we  might  make  to  the  Infinite  Being. 
Something  like  this  I  said,  —  that  as  we  were  taught  to 
believe  that  we  were  made  in  the  image  of  God,  and 
were  his  children,  emanations  from  the  Infinite  Perfec- 


Letters.  315 

tion,  partakers  of  the  divine  nature ;  as  the  Infinite  One 
had  sent  forth  a  portion  of  His  own  nature  to  dwell  in 
these  forms  of  frail  mortality  and  imperfection,  and  no 
darkness,  no  sorrow,  nor  erring  of  ours  could  reach  to 
Him ;  might  we  not  think,  —  God  knows,  I  said,  that  I 
would  be  guilty  of  no  irreverence  or  presumption, —  but 
might  we  not  think  that  with  infinite  consideration  and 
pity  he  looks  down  upon  us  struggling  with  our  load ; 
upon  our  weakness  and  trouble,  upon  our  penitence  and 
aspiration  ? 

As  the  congregation  was  retiring,  and  I  was  passing  in 
the  aisle,  I  saw  Father  Taylor  sitting  by  the  pulpit,  and 
he  beckoned  me  aside.  "  Brother  Dewey,"  he  said,  in 
his  emphatic  way,  "  did  you  ever  know  any  one  to  say 
what  you  have  been  saying  this  morning?"  —  "Why,"  I 
replied,  "does  not  every  one  say  it?"  —  "No,"  he  an- 
swered j  "  I  have  talked  with  a  thousand  ministers,  and 
no  one  of  them  ever  said  that." 


To   William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

St.  David's,  Sept.  12,  187^. 
Dear  and  Venerable, —  For  it  seems  you  grow  old, 
and  count  the  diminishing  days,  as  a  bankrupt  his  part- 
ing ducats.  I  never  heard  you  say  anything  of  the  sort 
before,  and  have  only  thought  of  you  as  growing  richer 
in  every  way.  I  don't  in  any  way;  but  though  well, 
considering,  I  find  myself  losing  strength  and  good  con- 
dition every  year.  That  is  why  I  move  about  less  and 
less,  sticking  closer  to  my  own  bed  and  board,  furnace 
and  chimney-nook,  —  shelf  for  shoes,  and  pegs  for  coat 
and  trousers. 


3i6  Letters. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  from  you,  and  that  you  will 
come  and  see  us  on  your  way  home.  Don't  slip  by  us. 
Don't  be  miserly  about  time.  Odysseus  took  a  long 
time  for  his  wanderings ;  take  a  hint  from  the  same,  not 
to  be  in  a  hurry. 

To  Mrs.  David  Lane. 

St.  David's,  Nov.  25,  1871. 

Dear  me  !  and  dear  you,  yet  more.  If  I  should 
write  to  you  "  often,"  what  would  be  the  condition  of  us 
both?  I  very  empty,  and  you  with  a  great  clatter  in 
your  ears.  Think  of  a  hopper,  with  very  little  grain 
in  it,  to  keep  shaking  !  It  would  be  a  very  impolitic 
hopper. 

I  am  laughing  at  myself,  while  I  write  this,  for  I  am 
not  an  empty  hopper,  and  if  I  could  "find  it  in  my 
heart  to  bestow  all  my  tediousness  upon  you,"  you 
would  laugh  at  me  too.  Ay,  but  in  what  sense  would 
you  laugh  ?  That  is  the  question.  I  laugh  at  myself, 
proudly,  for  calling  myself  empty ;  and  you,  perhaps, 
would  laugh  at  me  piteously,  on  finding  me  so. 

But  a  truce  with  this  nonsense.  Anybody  will  find 
enough  to  write  who  will  write  out  what  is  within  him. 
Did  you  ever  read  much  of  German  letters,  —  those, 
for  instance,  of  Perthes  and  his  friends  ?  They  are  full 
of  religion,  as  our  American  letters,  I  think,  are  not.  We 
seem  to  have  been  educated,  especially  we  Unitarians,  to 
great  reserve  on  this  subject.  I  remember  Channing's 
preaching  against  so  much  reserve.  It  is  partly,  I  believe, 
a  reaction  against  profession.  But  there  is  another  rea- 
son ;  and  that  is,  in  religion's  having  become,  under  a  more 
rational  culture,  so  a  part  of  our  whole  life  and  thought 


Letters.  317 

and  being,  that  formally  to  express  our  feelings  upon  it 
seems  to  us  unnecessary,  and  in  bad  taste,  as  if  we  were 
to  say  how  much  we  love  knowledge  or  literature,  or 
how  much  we  love  our  friends  or  our  children.  Much 
talk  of  this  sort  seems  to  bring  a  doubt,  by  implication, 
upon  the  very  thing  talked  about.  Channing  talked 
perpetually  about  religion,  —  that  is,  everything  ran  into 
that,  —  but  never  about  his  own  religious  feelings. 

Do  get  the  life  of  Perthes,  if  you  have  never  read 
it.  That  and  "  Palissy  the  Potter  "  are  among  the  most 
interesting  biographies  I  know. 

It  is  grim  November  weather  up  here,  and  I  like  it. 
Everything  in  its  place ;  and  we  are  having  considerable 
rain,  which  is  more  in  place,  as  winter  is  approaching, 
than  anything  else  could  be.  Wife  and  I  are  bunged  up 
with  colds.  No,  /  am ;  that  ugly  epithet  can't  attach  to 
the  grace  and  delicacy  of  her  conditions  and  propor- 
tions. But  alas  !  I  am  losing  my  old  and  boasted  secu- 
rity against  colds.  I  but  went  out  one  evening,  to  give 
a  lecture  at  the  Friendly  Union,  ^  and  this  is  the  way  I 

1  The  Sheffield  Friendly  Union  is  the  name  of  an  association 
for  purposes  of  social  entertainment  and  culture,  which  meets 
one  evening  in  the  week,  during  winter,  at  a  hall  in  the  village, 
to  enjoy  music,  lectures,  reading,  dramas,  or  whatever  diversion 
its  managers  can  procure  or  its  members  offer.  Dancing  and 
cards  are  forbidden,  but  other  games  are  played  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  evening  ;  and  there  is  a  small  but  good  library,  slowly  en- 
larging, and  much  used  and  valued  by  the  members.  The  sub- 
scription fee  is  small,  and  the  meetings  are  seldom  of  less  than 
one  hundred  or  two  hundred  people,  many  coming  three  Qf  four 
miles.  The  society  was  started  in  187 1,  and  Dr.  Dewey  took  a 
great  interest  in  it  from  the  first.  It  was  he  who  chose  its  name ; 
and  while  his  health  lasted,  he  was  a  frequent  attendant,  and 
always  lectured  or  read  a  play  of  Shakespeare  before  it  two  or 
three  times  every  winter. 


3i8  Letters. 

pay  for  it.    If  there  is  any  barrel  in  town  bigger  than  my 
head,  I  should  like  to  buy  it,  and  get  in. 

I  was  sorry  not  to  see  Coquerel,  and  pleased  to  hear 
that  he  had  the  grace  to  be  disappointed  at  not  seeing 
me.  But  I  don't  seek  people  any  more.  Why,  I  don't 
think  I  should  run  in  the  mud  to  see  Alexis  ^  himself. 
And  to  a  New  York  lady  I  suppose  that  is  about  the 
strongest  thing  I  could  say. 

All  send  their  love  to  you  and  yours. 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same. 

St.  David's,  March  7,  1872. 
Dear  Friend  —  of  all  Mankind,  —  I  see  you  have 
let  them  make  you  President  of  the  Bellevue  Local 
Visiting  Association.  Was  there  nobody  else  that  could 
take  that  charge  ?  Was  it  not  enough  for  you  to  have 
the  Forty-ninth  Street  Hospital  to  look  after?  But  M. 
says,  "  Let  her ;  let  her  work."  And  she  talks  about 
"  living  while  you  live,"  and  comes  at  me  with  such 
saws.  Saws  they  may  well  be  called,  for  they  sever 
prudence  from  virtue,  instead  of  making  them  a 
rounded  whole.  The  fact  is,  nobody  has  any  sense 
—  I  mean  the  perfect  article  —  but  me.  For  I  say, 
what  if  "  living  while  you  live "  comes  to  not  liv- 
ing at  all?  Is  that  what  you  call  working?  And  why 
not  let  other  people  work?  Is  Mrs.  Lane  to  be  made 
the  queen  bee  of  New  York  philanthropy,  and  to  be- 
come  such  an  enormous  conglomeration  of  goodness 

1  The  Grand  Duke  of  Russia,  whose  visit  to  New  York  was 
the  excitement  of  the  day. 


Letters.  319 

that  she  can't  get  out  of  her  hospital  hive  to  visit  her 
friends,  nor  let  them  visit  her,  with  any  chance  of  seeing 
her?  And  is  nobody  worth  caring  for  unless  he  has 
been  knocked  down  in  the  street,  and  has  got  a  broken 
leg  or  a  fever  ? 

I  am  quite  serious,  though  you  may  not  think  so.  I 
do  not  like  your  taking  another  hospital,  or  the  visitation 
of  it,  in  charge.  It  must  devolve  an  immense  deal  of 
care  and  thinking  upon  somebody.  There  's  reason  in 
all  things,  or  ought  to  be.  Your  brains  and  eyes  ought 
to  be  spared  from  overwork.  We  shall  hear  of  you  as 
blind  or  paralytic  next. 

Tell  your  mother  that  we  have  to  "stand  to  our 
colors  "  for  the  climate  of  New  England  nowadays,  else 
they  would  be  all  blown  away.  It's  awful  weather  in 
New  York  too,  I  hope.  I  don't  go  out  much.  Really, 
if  this  March  were  not  a  march  to  spring,  it  would  be  a 
hard  campaign.  With  love  to  all  your  house,  I  am,  as 
affectionately  and  warmly  as  the  weather  will  permit. 
Yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  Feb.  21,  1873. 
Dear  Friend,  —  I  need  not  say  we  shall  be  rejoiced 
to  see  you.  Don't  be  proud,  but  it  is  "  real  good  "  of 
you.  If  "  a  saint  in  crape  is  twice  a  saint  in  lawn,"  a 
friend  in  winter  is  twice  a  friend  of  any  other  season. 
"If  I  shall  be  away?"  Only  by  being  beside  myself 
could  I  be  away  in  winter.  "Or  have  other  guests." 
No,  indeed,  they  don't  fly  like  doves  to  our  winter 


320  Letters. 

windows.  But  the  white  snowflakes  do,  and  it  will  do 
your  eyes  good  to  see  the  driven  and  drifted  snow. 
We  have  had  a  very  quiet  winter,  and  few  drifts,  but 
to-night,  I  see,  is  blowing  them  up.  I  should  not  won- 
der if  they  blocked  the  road  and  kept  my  letter  back  a 
day  or  two. 

To  the  Same. 

March  5,  1873. 

.  .  .  We  thought  you  might  be  stopped  somewhere, 
and  not  to  go  at  all  would  be  the  worst  "  go "  that 
could  be.  All  Sunday  we  kept  speaking  about  it,  with  a 
sort  of  feeling  as  if  we  were  guilty  of  something ;  so  that 
I  felt  it  necessary  to  calm  the  family  distress  by  setting 
up  a  new  and  original  view  of  the  whole  matter,  to  this 
effect :  "  Well,  if  he  has  been  stopped  over  Sunday  at 
the  State  Line,  or  Chatham  Four  Comers,  it  may  be  the 
most  profitable  Sunday  he  ever  passed.  What  a  time 
for  calm  meditation  and  patience  !  —  better  things  than 
preaching.  You  know  he  lives  in  a  tlirong;  this  will 
be  a  blessed  '  retreat,'  as  the  Catholics  call  it.  He  is 
stomach- full  of  prosperity ;  perhaps  he  needed  an  altera- 
tive. Introspection  is  a  rare  thing  in  our  modem  out- 
ward-bound life.  He  is  accustomed  to  preach  to  great 
admiring  audiences ;  to-day  he  will  preach  to  his  hum- 
ble, non-admiring  self." 

Well,  I  am  glad,  —  so  ready,  alas  !  are  we  to  escape 
from  discipline,  —  but  I  am  glad  that  you  got  through, 
though  by  running  a  gauntlet  that  we  shivered  to  read 
of.  But  you  did  get  through,  and  got  home,  having 
accomplished  what  you  went  for.  Any  way,  you  did  us 
so  much  good  that  it  paid,  on  the  great  scale  of  disin- 


Letters.  321 

terested  benevolence,  for  a  great  deal  of  trouble  on  your 

part.  -* 

"  Shall  we  be  carried  to  the  skies 
On  flowery  beds  of  ease  ?  " 

With  our  love  to  the  entire  quatemity  of  you, 
Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

On  his  eightieth  birthday  my  father  was  sur- 
prised and  touched  by  the  gift  acknowledged  in 
the  next  letter  to  the  old  friend  through  whose 
hands  it  was  conveyed  to  him.  It  will  be  seen, 
that  in  the  private  letter  accompanying  this  re- 
sponse, he  was  under  the  mistaken  impression 
that  Mr.  Bryant  was  writing  a  history  of  the 
United  States,  while,  in  fact,  he  was  merely  edit- 
ing one  written  by  Mr.  Gay. 


To   William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

Sheffield,  March  30,  1874. 
My  Dear  Sir  and  Friend,  —  Your  letter,  which 
came  to  me  to-day,  crowns  the  birthday  tokens  and 
expressions  of  regard  which  I  have  received  from  many. 
It  takes  me  entirely  by  surprise,  only  exceeded  by  the 
gratification  I  feel  at  having  such  a  generous  gift  from 
my  friends  in  New  York  and  elsewhere.  I  thank  them, 
and  more  than  thank  them,  and  you,  for  being  the 
medium  of  it.  I  am  alike  honored  by  both.  Thanks  is 
a  little  word,  and  dollars  is  called  a  vulgar  one  ;  but  two 
thousand  two  hundred  and  sixty-two  of  the  latter,  and 


322  Letters. 

the  sense  I  have  of  the  former,  make  up,  I  feel,  no  vul- 
gar amount. 

I  don't  know  how  you  will  convey  to  my  old  parish- 
ioners and  friends  my  sense  of  their  good  will  and  good 
esteem,  but  I  pray  you  will  do  so  as  largely  as  you 
can ;  and  to  Dr.  Osgood  particularly  for  the  care  and 
trouble  I  cannot  but  suppose  he  has  taken  in  this  mat- 
ter. I  am  sure  it  will  please  them  to  know,  that  on 
account  of  the  increased  expenses  of  living,  and  the 
failure  of  some  stocks,  this  gift  is  especially  convenient 
to  me,  and  will  help  to  smooth  —  for  the  steps  now, 
perhaps,  but  few —  my  remaining  path  in  life. 

I  am,  as  ever,  with  great  regard, 

Your  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same, 

St.  David's,  March  30,  1874. 
Dear  Bryant,  —  I  send  you  enclosed  my  formal  an- 
swer to  your  letter  on  behalf  of  my  kind  friends  in  New 
York  and  elsewhere,  but  I  must  have  a  little  private  word 
with  you.  .  .  .  That  speech  of  yours  at  the  Cooper  ^  was 
one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  very  best,  of  the  little  speeches 
that  you  have  ever  made.  But  good  gracious  !  to  think 
of  your  undertaking  a  Popular  History  of  the  United 
States  !  The  only  thing  that  troubles  me  for  you  is  the 
taskwork  of  investigation.  Supposing  you  to  have  the 
whole  subject  in  your  mind,  nobody  can  write  the  story 
better  than  you  can.  Put  fire  into  it,  my  dear  Senior ; 
or  rather  do  what  you  can  do,  —  for  I  have  seen  it, — so 
state  things  in  your  calm  way  as  to  put  fire  into  others. 

1  A  meeting  at  the  Cooper  Institute. 


Letters.  323 

This  is  a  great  work  that  you  have  in  hand ;  every  body- 
will  read  it,  and  will  be  instructed  by  it,  I  trust,  in  sound 
politics,  and  stirred  to  holy  patriotism. 

Ever  yours,  faithfully, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  the  Same, 

St.  David's,  Aug.  6,  1874. 
We  have  had  a  good  deal  of  conference  together,  you 
and  I,  old  friend,  but  I  do  not  know  that  we  ever  dis- 
cussed the  subject  of  bores.  You  have  raised  questions 
about  it,  both  for  the  next  world  and  this,  which,  though 
I  said  nothing  about  them  in  my  book,  as  you  facetiously 
remark,  it  may  surprise  you  to  know  are  quite  serious 
with  me.  Thus,  if  there  is  to  be  society  in  the  next 
world,  what  can  save  it  from  the  weariness  of  society  in 
this,  —  save  it,  in  other  words,  from  bores  ?  The  spirit- 
ists say  that  Theodore  Parker  .gives  lectures  there  to 
delighted  audiences.  And,  truth  to  say,  I  do  not  know  of 
any  other  social  occupation  that  would  be  so  satisfactory 
as  that  of  teaching  or  learning.  What  is  all  the  highest 
conversation  here,  but  that  by  which  we  help  one  an- 
other—  teaching  or  being  taught  —  to  higher  and  juster 
thoughts  ?  That  would  shake  off  the  yoke  of  boredom 
under  which  so  many  groan  now.  If,  instead  of  eternal 
surface-talk,  we  could  strike  down  to  reality,  to  some- 
thing that  interested  our  minds  and  hearts,  fresh  streams 
would  flow  over  the  arid  waste  of  commonplace.  Real 
thoughts  would  be  a  divining-rod.  If,  when  a  man  calls 
upon  me,  he  could  teach  me  something  upon  which  he 
knows  more  than  I  do,  or  I  could  do  the  same  for  him, 
neither  of  us  would  be  bored. 


324  Letters. 

Do  I  not  talk  like  a  book?  But,  to  be  serious,  so 
much  am  I  bored  with  general  society,  that  I  am  in- 
clined to  say  I  had  rather  live  as  I  do  here  in  Sheffield. 
Isn't  Cummington  a  blessed  place  for  that?  But  alas  ! 
it  don't  save  you  from  being  bored  with  letters,  —  vide, 
for  example,  this,  perhaps,  which  I  am  now  writing. 

But,  O  excellent  man  !  though  you  never  bored  me  in 
talk,  you  have  lately  bored  into  me  ;  I  will  tell  you  how. 

A  month  or  two  ago  a  book  agent  came  to  me,  asking 
me  to  subscribe  for  "  Bryant's  Pictorial  America."  I 
was  astonished,  and  said,  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Mr. 
Bryant's  name  will  appear  on  the  titlepage  of  this  work, 
and  that  it  was  written  by  him?  "  —  "  Certainly,"  was  the 
reply ;  "  not  that  he  has  written  the  whole,  but  much  of 
it."  I  could  n't  believe  that,  and  was  declining  to  sub- 
scribe, when  my  wife  —  that  woman  has  a  great  respect 
for  you  —  called  me  aside  and  said,  "  I  wish  you  would 
take  this  book."  So  I  turned  back  and  said,  "  My  wife 
wants  this  book,  and  I  will  subscribe  for  it."  Well,  yes- 
terday the  first  volume  came  to  hand ;  and,  turning  to  the 
titlepage,  I  found  edited  by  W.  C.  B.,  which  means  not 
that  you  wrote  the  book,  but  seem  to  father  it.  Next 
year  a  man  will  come  along  with  "  Bryant's  Popular  His- 
tory of  the  United  States  of  America,"  and  the  year  after, 
for  aught  I  know,  with  "  Specimens  of  American  Litera- 
ture," by  W.  C.  B.  I  do  seriously  beseech  you,  my 
friend,  to  look  into  this.  These  people  take  advantage 
of  your  good- nature ;  and  ill-nature  will  spring  up  about 
it,  if  this  kind  of  thing  goes  on.     With  love  to  J.,  and 

hoping  to  see  you, 

Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  325 


To  the  Same, 

St.  David's,  Sept.  14,  1874. 

Dear  Friend,  —  It  was  very  amiable  in  you  to  write 
to  me  on  getting  home ;  and,  not  to  be  outdone,  I  am 
going  to  write  to  you  ;  and  for  the  both  sad  and  amus- 
ing story  you  repeated  of  Mr.  G.,  I  will  give  you  a 
recital  of  the  same  mixed  character. 

I  have  been  this  evening  to  hear  the  Hampton  Sing- 
ers. Two  of  them,  by  the  bye,  are  our  guests,  —  for  we 
offered  to  relieve  the  company  of  all  expenses  if  they 
would  come  do\\Tn  here,  —  and  very  well  behaved  young 
men  they  are.  The  tunes  they  sing,  remember,  come 
from  the  tobacco  and  cotton  fields  of  the  South.  I 
asked  them  how  many  they  had.  They  said,  two  hun- 
dred, and  that  there  were  a  great  many  more  which 
were  sung  by  the  slaves  of  the  old  time.  Is  it  not  an 
extraordinary  thing?  I  do  not  believe  that  more  than 
ten  are  ever  heard  from  the  farms  of  New  England.  I 
don't  remember  more  thanyfz'i?.  What  a  musical  nature 
must  these  people  have  1  I  imagine  that  no  such  musi- 
cal development,  no  such  number  of  songs,  can  be  found 
among  any  other  people  in  the  world. 

The  chief  interest  with  me  in  hearing  them  was  think- 
ing where  they  came  from,  what  was  the  condition  that 
gave  birth  to  them.  Their  singing  is  both  sad  and  amus- 
ing, but  partakes  more  of  aspiration  than  of  dejection ; 
and  it  has  not  a  particle  of  hard  or  revengeful  feeling 
towards  their  masters.  But  here  again,  —  what  sort  of 
a  people  it  is  !  The  words  of  their  songs  are  of  the  poor- 
est ;  not  a  soul  among  them  has  arisen  to  give  us  any- 
thing like  the  German  folk-songs,  or  like  Burns's.  Still, 
their  songs  are  a  wonderful  revelation  from  the  house  of 


326  Letters. 

bondage ;  such  sadness,  such  domestic  tenderness,  such 
feeling  for  one  another,  such  hopes  and  hallelujahs  lifted 
above  this  world,  where  there  was  no  hope  ! 
Heartily  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  Ncrv.  24,  1874. 

Dear  Friend,  —  I  have  read  and  read  again  what  you 
have  written  upon  the  Great  Theme,  What  a  subject  for 
a  letter !  And  yet  the  most  we  can  say  seems  to  avail 
no  more  than  the  least  we  can  say.  Some  one,  or  more, 
of  the  old  Asiatics  —  I  forget  who  —  says  he  "would 
have  no  word  used  to  describe  the  Infinite  Cause."  I 
suppose  no  word  can  be  found  that  is  not  subject  to 
exceptions.  The  final  words  that  I  fall  back  upon  are 
righteousness  and  love.  Even  the  word  intelligence  is 
perhaps  more  questionable.  If  it  implies  anything  like 
attention  to  one  'person  and  thing  or  another,  anything 
like  imagination,  comparison,  reasoning,  we  must  pause 
upon  the  use  of  it.  To  say  knowledge  would  perhaps  be 
better,  for  there  must  be  something  that  knows  its  own 
works  and  creatures.  To  suppose  the  cause  of  all  things 
to  be  ignorant  of  all  things  seems  like  a  contradiction 
in  terms.  It  would  be,  in  fact,  to  deny  a  cause ;  to  say 
that  the  universe  is  what  it  is  without  any  cause.  Even 
that  awful  supposition,  the  only  alternative  to  theism, 
comes  over  the  mind  sometimes ;  but  if  I  were  to  accept 
it,  "  the  very  stones  would  cry  out "  against  me. 

Oh,  my  friend,  I  lie  down  in  my  bed  every  night  think- 
ing of  God ;  and  I  say  sometimes,  is  it  not  a  false  idea 
of  greatness,  to  suppose  the  Infinite  Greatness  cannot 


Letters.  327 

regard  me  ?  Worldly  great  men  shrink  from  little  things, 
from  little  people.  But  it  is  not  so  with  the  most  truly 
great.  They  come  down  in  art,  in  poetry,  in  eloquence, 
in  true  learning,  to  instruct  and  lift  up  the  lowly  and 
ignorant. 

And  again  I  say,  when  trying  to  reckon  up  the  ac- 
count with  myself  before  I  sink  into  unconsciousness, 
thinking  of  this  bodily  frame,  \yith  its  million  harmonious 
agencies,  and  the  mind  more  wonderful  still ;  or  when  I 
sit  down  in  my  daily  walk,  and  sink  into  the  bosom  of 
nature,  with  light  and  life  and  beauty  all  around  me,  — 
surely  the  author  of  all  this  is  good.  It  would  be  mon- 
strous fatuity  to  question  it,  utter  blindness  not  to  see  it. 

And  yet  again,  I  say,  there  are  relations  between  the 
finite  and  the  Infinite,  between  my  mind  and  the  Infinite 
mind,  between  my  weakness  and  the  Infinite  power. 
And  why  should  conscious  Omnipresence  in  our  con- 
ception localize  it  ?  Presence  is  n,ot  limited  to  contact. 
I  am  present  here  in  my  room ;  I  am  present  in  the 
field  where  I  sit  down.  Why,  with  the  whole  universe, 
should  not  the  Infinite  Being  thus  be  present  ? 

What  a  wonderful  chapter  is  the  twenty-third  of  Job  ! 
There  are  many  things  in  that  book  which  touch  upon  our 
modem  experience.  "  Oh  !  that  I  knew  where  I  might 
find  him,  that  I  might  come  near  even  to  his  seat.  I  go 
forward,  but  he  is  not  there,  and  backward,  but  I  cannot 
perceive  him ;  on  the  left  hand  where  he  doth  work,  but 
,  I  cannot  behold  him ;  for  he  hideth  himself  on  the  right 
hand  that  I  cannot  see  him."  But  I  come  with  undoubt- 
ing  faith  to  Job's  conclusion  :  "  But  he  knoweth  the  way 
that  I  take  ;  when  he  hath  tried  me  I  shall  come  forth  as 
gold."  There  are  deep  trials,  at  times,  in  the  approach 
to  God,  in  lifting  the  weak  thoughts  of  our  minds  to  the 


328  -  Letters. 

Infinite  One ;  there  are  struggles  and  tears  which  none 
may  ever  witness  j  but  still  I  say,  "  O  God,  thou  art  my 
God,  early  will  I  seek  thee,"  —  ever  will  I  seek  thee.  Let 
him  who  will,  or  must,  walk  out  from  this  fair,  bright,  glow- 
ing world,  thrilling  all  the  world  in  us  with  joy,  upon  the 
cold  and  dreary  waste  of  atheism ;  I  will  not.  I  should 
turn  rebel  to  all  the  great  instincts  within  me,  and  all  the 
great  behests  of  nature  and  life  around  me,  if  I  did. 
Ah  !  the  confounding,  ever-troubling  difficulty  is  not  to 
beheve,  but  to  y^^/ the  great  Presence  all  the  day  long. 
This  is  what  I  think  of,  and  long  have,  with  questioning 
and  pain.  What  beings  should  we  become  —  what  to  one 
another  —  under  that  living  and  loving  sense  of  the  all- 
good,  the  all-beautiful  and  divine  within  us  and  around 
us  !  And,  for  ourselves,  what  a  perfect  joy  it  is  to  feel 
that,  in  this  seemingly  disturbed  universe,  all  is  order, 
all  is  right,  all  is  well,  all  is  the  best  possible  ! 
Yours  ever, 

Orville  Dewey. 

From  a  Note-Book. 

The  pain  of  erring,  —  the  bitterest  in  the  world,  —  is 
it  not  strange  that  it  should  be  so  bitter?  Is  it  not 
strange  that  growth  must  be  attained  on  such  hard 
terms  ?  Nay,  but  is  it  not  simply  applying  the  sharpest 
instrument  to  the  cutting  and  carving  of  the  finest  and 
grandest  form  of  things  on  earth,  —  a  noble  character  ? 

The  work  is  but  begun  on  earth.  Man  is  the  only 
being  in  this  world  whose  nature  is  not  half  developed, 
whose  powers  are  in  their  infancy ;  the  ideal  in  whose 
constitution  is  not  yet,  and  never  on  earth,  realized.  The 
animal  arrives  at  animal  perfection  here,  —  becomes  all 


Letters.  329 

that  it  was  made  to  be.  The  beetle,  the  dragon-fly,  the 
eagle,  is  as  perfect  as  it  can  be.  But  man  comes  far 
short  of  the  ideal  that  presided  over  his  formation.  Any- 
way it  would  be  unaccountable,  not  to  say  incredible, 
that  God's  highest  work  on  earth  should  fail  of  its  end, 
fail  of  realizing  its  ideal,  fail  of  being  what  it  was  made 
for.  But  when  the  process,  unlike  that  in  animals,  which 
is  all  facility  and  pleasure,  is  full  of  difficulty  and  pain, 
then  for  the  unfinished  work  to  be  dropped  would  be, 
not  as  if  a -sculptor  should  go  on  blocking  out  marble 
statues  only  to  throw  them  away  half  finished,  but  as  if 
he  should  take  the  living  human  frame  for  his  subject, 
and  should  cut  and  gash  and  torture  it  for  years,  only  to 
fling  it  into  the  ditch. 


To    William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

St.  David's,  Dec.  22,  1874. 

Thank  you,  my  friend,  and  three  times  over,  for 
AUibone's  volumes.  I  did  want  and  never  expected  to 
have  them.  But  I  had  no  idea  Allibone  was  such  a 
big  thing.  All  the  bigger  are  my  thanks.  What  an 
ocean  of  drowned  authors  it  is,  —  only  here  and  there 
one  with  masts  up  and  the  flags  flying  ! 

My  little  oracular,  pro-Indians  admonition  was  cor- 
rectly printed,  and  the  changes  you  made  were  good. 

Do  you  know  that  to-day  sol  stat?  I  don't  believe 
that  you  mind  it  in  the  city  as  we  do  in  the  country. 
To-day  the  glorious  orb  pauses  and  rests  a  little,  to  turn 
back  and  march  up  and  along  the  mountain  top, — • 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  a  month  on  the  same,  —  and 
bring  us  summer.     And  there  is  cheer  and  comfort  in 


330  Letters. 

that,  though  the  proverb  about  the  cold  strengthening 
holds  for  a  couple  of  months. 

With  our  Merry  Christmas  to  you  all,  I  am,  all  days 
of  the  year, 

Yours  heartily, 

Orville  Dewey. 


To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  May  g,  1875. 
My  Dear  Fellow  (of  the  Royal  Society,  I  mean), — 
I  have  had  it  upon  my  mind  these  two  or  three  weeks 
past  to  write  to  you ;  and  I  really  believe  that  what  most 
hindered  me  was  that  I  had  so  many  things  to  say. 
And  yet,  I  solemnly  declare  that  I  cannot  remember  now 
what  they  were.  They  were  things  of  evanescent  medita- 
tion, phases  of  the  Great  Questions ;  but  for  a  week  or 
two  I  have  been  saying,  I  will  not  weary  myself  so  much 
with  them.  So  you  have  escaped  this  time.  One  thing, 
however,  I  do  recall,  though  not  of  those  questions ;  and 
that  is,  reading  the  Psalms  through  for  my  pillow-book. 
And  it  is  with  a  kind  of  astonishment  that  I  have  read 
them.  Did  you  ever  look  into  them  with  the  thought  of 
comparing  them  with  the  old  Hindoo  and  Persian  or 
Mohammedan  or  Greek  utterances  of  devotion?  How 
cold  and  formal  these  are,  compared  with  the  earnestness, 
the  entreaty,  the  tenderness  of  David  and  Asaph, — 
the  swallowing  up  of  their  whole  souls  into  love,  trust, 
and  thankfulness  !  What  is  this,  whence  came  it,  and 
what  does  it  mean?  This  phenomenon  in  Judaea,  how 
are  you  to  explain  it,  without  supposing  a  special  inspira- 
tion breathed  into  the  souls  of  men  from  the  source  of 
all  spiritual  life  and  light  ?    The  Jewish  nature  was  not 


Letters.  33 1 

more  keen  than  the  Greek,  or  perhaps  the  Arabians,  yet 
all  their  religious  utterances  are  but  apothegms  in 
presence  of  the  Jewish  vitality  and  experience.  I  do 
not  deny  their  grandeur  and  beauty ;  but  the  Bible 
brings  me  into  another  world  of  thought  and  feeling,  — 
into  a  new  creation.  And  when  we  take  into  the  ac- 
count the  Gospels,  we  seem  to  be  brought  alike  out  of 
the  old  philosophy  and  the  new,  —  out  both  from  the 
old  formalism  and  the  vast  inane  and  unknown,  which 
the  science  of  to-day  conceives  of,  into  new  and  living 
relations  with  the  Infinite  Love  and  Goodness.  In  this, 
for  my  part,  I  rest. 

To  the  Same. 

St.  'DA\irJ's,/uly  24,  1875. 
My  Dear  Friend,  —  Thank  you  for  one  of  your  good, 
long,  thoughtful  letters.  My  thoughts  in  these  days  run 
in  other  directions.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  they  are ; 
no  language  can ;  at  least,  I  never  used  any  that  did. 
Almost  all  human  experience  has  been  described ;  but 
what  are  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a  man  who  says 
with  himself  as  he  walks  along  upon  the  familiar  path, 
"  A  few  more  steps  and  I  shall  be  gone  ;  —  what  and 
where  shall  I  be  then?"  No  mortal  speech  can  tell. 
Meditations  come,  you  may  imagine,  at  such  a  crisis  in 
one's  being,  too  vast,  too  trying  for  utterance.  Wearied 
and  weighed  down  by  them,  I  sometimes  say,  "  I  will 
think  no  more  about  it ;  all  my  thinking  will  alter  noth- 
ing that  is  to  be  ;  what  can  I  do  but  lay  myself  on  the 
bosom  of  that  Infinite  Goodness,  in  which,  without 
doubting,  I  believe?  What  would  I  have  other  than 
what  God  appoints?  " 


332  Letters. 

Yet,  after  all,  I  am  far  from  losing  my  interest  in  the 
world  I  am  leaving.  I  am  much  struck  with  what  you 
say  about  the  press,  —  the  money  interest  involved,  and 
the  direction  which  that  interest  is  likely  to  give  it.  I 
wish  there  were  a  distinct  education  for  editorship,  as 
there  is  for  preaching,  or  for  the  lawyer  or  physician. 
There  is  an  article  of  Greg's  in  the  last  "  Contemporary 
Review,"  following  out  his  "  Rocks  Ahead,"  that  it  has 
distressed  me  to  read.  The  great  danger  now  is  the 
rise  of  the  lower  and  laboring  classes  against  capital  and 
intelligence.  And  nothing  will  save  the  world,  but  for 
the  higher  classes  to  rouse  themselves  to  do  their  duty, 
—  in  politics,  in  education,  and  in  consideration  and 
care  for  the  lower.  Have  you  seen  the  pamphlet  of 
Miss  Octavia  Hill,  of  England  ?  That  is  the  spirit,  and 
one  kind  of  work  that  is  wanted.  O  women  !  instead  of 
clamoring  for  your  rights,  come  up  to  this  ! 

This  is  the  most  beautiful  summer  that  I  remember. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  of  your  enjoying  it,  and  of  the  bevy 
of  young  people  around  you.  Such  I  see  every  day  in 
the  street  and  the  grounds,  as  if  Sheffield  were  the  very 
paradise  of  the  young  and  gay. 

To  William   Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

St.  David's,  Dec.  30,  1875. 

Dear  Friend,  —  ...  I  am  glad  to  have  your  opin- 
ion of  Emerson's  and  Whittier's  verse  Collections,  and 
especially  your  good  opinion  of  Cranch's  translation, 
for  I  am  much  interested  in  him.  .  .  . 

My  own  reading  runs  very  much  in  another  direc- 
tion, among  those  who  "reason  of"  the  highest  things. 
Especially  I  have  been  interested  in  what   those   old 


Letters.  333 

atheists,  Lucretius  and  Omar  Khayyam,  say.  Have  you 
seen  the  "  Rubaiyat"  of  the  latter?  And.  by  the  bye, 
have  you  an  EngUsh  translation  of  Lucretius's  "  De  Rerum 
Natura  "  ?  It  must  be  a  small  volume,  only  six  books ; 
and  if  it  is  not  too  precious  an  edition,  I  pray  you  to 
lend  and  send  it  to  me  by  mail. 

What  atheism  was  to  the  minds  of  these  two  men 
amazes  me.  Lucretius  was  an  Epicurean  in  life,  per- 
haps, as  well  as  philosophy,  but  1  want  to  understand 
him  better.  I  want  to  see  whether  he  anywhere  laments 
over  the  desolation  of  his  system.  That  a  man  of  his 
power  and  genius  should  have  accepted  it  calmly  and 
indifferently,  is  what  I  cannot  understand.  As  for 
Omar,  he  seems  to  turn  it  all  into  sport.  "  Don't  think 
at  all,"  is  what  he  says ;  "  drown  all  thought  in  wine." 
But  he  writes  very  deftly,  and  I  cannot  but  think  that  his 
resort  is  something  like  the  drunkard's,  —  to  escape  the 
great  misery. 

To  Ro).  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  _/««.  11,  1876. 
,  .  .  It  is  n't  everybody  that  can  turn  within,  and  ask 
such  questions  as  you  do.  But  though  I  laughed  at  the 
exaggeration,  I  admire  the  tendency.  I  suppose  no- 
body ever  did  much,  or  advanced  far,  without  more  or 
less  of  it.  But  your  appreciation  of  others  beats  your 
depreciation  of  yourself.  For  me,  I  am  so  poor  in  fact 
and  in  my  own  opinion,  that,  —  what  do  you  suppose  I 
am  going  to  say?  —  that  I  utterly  reject  and  cast  away 
the  kind  things  you  say  of  me  ?  No,  I  don't ;  that  is,  I 
won^t.  I  am  determined  to  make  the  most  of  them. 
For,  to  be  serious,  I  have  poured  out  my  mind  and 


334  Letters. 

heart  into  my  preaching.  I  have  written  with  tears  in 
my  eyes  and  thrills  through  my  frame,  and  why  shall  I 
say,  it  is  nothing?  Nay,  though  I  have  never  been 
famed  as  a  preacher,  I  do  believe  that  what  I  have 
preached  has  told  upon  the  hearts  of  my  hearers  as 
deeply,  perhaps,  as  what  is  commonly  called  eloquence. 
But  when  you  speak  of  my  work  as  "  put  beyond  cavil 
and  beyond  forgetfulness,"  I  cover  my  face  with  my 
hands,  with  confusion. 

But  enough  of  personalities,  except  to  say  that  I  think 
you  exaggerate  and  fear  too  much  the  trials  that  old  age, 
if  it  come,  will  bring  upon  you.  Not  to  say  that  your 
temperament  is  more  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  mine, 
you  are  embosomed  in  interests  and  friendships  that  will 
cling  about  you  as  long  as  you  live.  I  am  compara- 
tively alone.  .  .  . 

But  after  all,  the  burden  of  old  age  lies  not  in  such 
questions  as  these.  It  is  a  solemn  crisis  in  our  being,  of 
which  I  cannot  write  now,  and  probably  never  shall. 

"  Wait  the  great  teacher,  Death,  and  God  adore." 

That  is  all  I  can  do,  except  reasonably  to  enjoy  all  the 
good  I  have  and  all  the  happiness  I  see.     Of  the  latter, 
I  count  A.'s  being  "better,"  and  of  the  former,  your 
friendship  as  among  the  most  prized  and  dear. 
With  utmost  love  to  you  all, 

Orville  Dewey. 


To  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Esq. 

'  St.  David's,  March  14,  1876. 

My  Dear  Friend,  —  I  have  begun  to  look  upon  my- 
self as  an  old  man.     I  never  did  before.     I  have  felt  so 


Letters,  335 

young,  so  much  at  least  as  I  always  have  done,  that  I 
could  n't  fairiy  take  in  the  idea.  The  giftie  has  n't  been 
gi'ed  me  to  see  myself  as  others  see  me.  Even  yet, 
when  they  get  up  to  offer  me  the  great  chair,  I  can't 
understand  it.  But  at  length  I  have  so  far  come  into 
their  views  as  seriously  to  ask  myself  what  it  is  fit  for  an 
old  man  to  do,  or  to  undertake.  And  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  best  thing  for  me  is  to  be  quiet,  to 
keep,  at  least,  to  my  quiet  and  customary  method  of 
living,  —  in  other  words,  to  be  at  home.  My  wife  is  de- 
cidedly of  that  opinion  for  herself,  and,  by  parity  of  rea- 
soning, for  me ;  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  she  is  right. 

This  parity,  however,  does  not  apply  to  you.  You 
are  six  months  younger  than  I  am,^by  calendar,  and  six 
years  in  activity ;  you  go  back  and  forth  like  Cicero  to 
his  country  villas ;  pray  stop  at  my  door  some  day,  and 
let  me  see  you. 

You  see  where  all  this  points.  I  decide  not  to  go  to 
New  York  at  present,  notwithstanding  all  the  attractions 
which  you  hold  out  to  me.  I  don't  feel  like  leaving 
home  while  this  blustering  March  is  roaring  about  the 
house.  And  from  the  mild  winter  we  have  had,  I 
expect  it  to  grow  more  like  a  lion  at  the  end. 

With  love  to  J.  and  Miss  F., 

Your  timid  old  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

Aug.  7,  1876. 

Dear  Friend,  —  I  can't  be  quite  still,  though  I  have 
nothing  to  say  but  how  good  you  must  be,  to  see  so 
much  good  in  otliers  1    That  is  what  always  strikes  me 


336  '  Letters. 

in  your  oraisons  funebres,  and  equally,  the  fine  discrimi- 
nation you  always  show.  And  both  appear  in  your  lov- 
ing notice  of  my  volume.-'  Well,  I  take  it  to  heart,  and 
accept,  though  I  cannot  altogether  understand  it.  Such 
words,  from  such  a  person  as  you,  are  a  great  thing  to 
me.  It  is  to  me  a  great  comfort  to  retire  from  the  scene 
with  such  a  testimony,  instead  of  a  bare  civil  dismissal, 
which  is  all  I  was  looking  for  from  anybody. 

Mr.  Dewey  was  urged  to  the  publication  of  this 
last  volume  of  sermons  by  several  of  his  most 
valued  friends ;  and  its  warm  acceptance  by  the 
public  justified  their  opinion,  and  gave  him  the 
peculiar  gratification  of  feeling  that  in  his  old  age 
and  retirement  his  words  could  yet  have  power 
and  receive  approbation. 

Rev.  J.  W.  Chadwick  wrote  a  delightful  review 
of  the  book  in  the  "  Christian  Register;"  and, 
supposing  that  the  notice  was  editorial,  my  father 
wrote  to  Mr.  Mumford,  then  editor,  as  follows ; 

Sheffield,  Nov.  22,  1876. 
My  Dear  Sir,  —  It  is  taking  things  too  much  au 
sericux,  perhaps,  to  write  a  letter  of  special  thanks  for 
your  notice  of  my  volume  in  last  week's  "Register." 
If  I  ought  to  have  passed  it  over  as  the  ordinary  edi- 
torial courtesy,  I  can  only  say  that  it  did  not  seem  to 
me  as  such  merely,  but  something  heartier,  —  and  finer, 
by  itself  considered.  I  was  glad  to  have  praise  from 
such  a  pen.    You  will  better  understand  the  pleasure 

1  The  "  Two  Great  Commandments." 


Letters.  337 

that  it  gave  me,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  set  about  the 
publication  of  that  volume  with  serious  misgiving,  feeling 
as  if  the  world  had  had  enough  of  me,  and  it  would  be 
fortunate  for  me  to  be  let  off  without  criticism.  And 
now,  you  and  Bellows  and  Martineau  (in  a  private  let- 
ter) come  with  your  kind  words,  and  turn  the  tables 
altogether  in  my  favor. 

I  once  wrote  a  review  of  Channing,  and,  on  speaking 
with  him  about  it,  I  found  that  he  had  n't  read  the  praise 
part  at  all.  His  wife  told  me  that  he  never  read  any- 
thing of  that  sort  about  himself.  Well,  he  was  half 
drowned  with  it ;  but  for  me,  I  think  it  is  right  to  ex- 
press my  obligation  to  you,  and  the  good  regard  with 
which  I  am, 

Very  truly  yours, 

Orville  Dewey." 


To  Rev.  Henry  W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  yb«.  16,  1877. 
Dear  Friend,  —  A  New  Year's  word  from  you  should 
have  had  an  answer  before  now,  but  I  have  had  little 
to  tell  you.  Unless  I  tell  you  of  our  remarkable  snow 
season,  snow  upon  snow,  till  it  is  one  or  two  feet  deep ; 
or  of  the  woodpeckers  that  come  and  hammer  upon  our 
trees  as  if  they  were  driving  a  trade  ;  or  of  our  sunset^, 
whicn  ilood  the  south  mountain  with  splendor,  and  flush 
the  sky  above  with  purple  and  vermilion,  as  if  they  said, 
"We  are  coming,  we  are  coming  to  bring  light  and 
warmth  and  beauty  with  us."  You  can  hardly  under- 
stand, in  your  city  confines,  how  lovely  are  these  har- 
bingers of  spring.  And  see  !  it  is  only  two  months  off. 
And  withal  we  are  ploughing  through  the  winter  in  great 
22 


338  Letters. 

comfort  and  health.  No  parties  here,  to  be  sure ;  no 
clubs,  no  oysters  and  champagne,  but  pleasant  sitting 
around  the  evening  fire,  with  loud  reading,  —  Warner's 
"  Mummies  and  Moslems "  just  now,  very  pleasantly 
written.  .  .  .  Have  you  seen  Huidekoper's  "  Judaism  in 
Rome  "  ?  It  has  interested  me  very  much.  The  Jews, 
as  a  people,  present  the  greatest  of  historic  problems. 
A  narrow  strip  of  land,  that  "  scowl  upon  the  face  of  the 
world,"  —  a  small  people,  no  learning,  no  art,  no  miU- 
tary  power;  yet,  by  the  very  ideas  proceeding  from 
it, — Christianity  included, —  has  influenced  the  world 
more  than  Greece  or  Rome.  Huidekoper's  book  is 
very  learned.  I  am  glad  to  see  such  a  book  from  our 
ranks.  We  have  done  too  little  elaborate  work  in  learn- 
ing or  theology.  Your  Ministers'  Institute  promises  well 
for  that. 

To  his  Sister,  Miss  J.  Dewey. 

St.  David's,  March  26,  1877. 
Your  letter  has  come  this  afternoon,  astonishing  us 
with  its  date,  and  leading  us  to  wonder  where  your 
whereabouts  are  now.  Such  an  ignis  fatuus  you  have 
proved  for  the  month  past !  With  plans  of  goings  and 
comings,  with  engagements  and  disengagements,  you 
have  slipped  by  us  entirely,  so  that  the  kind  of  assurance 
I  have  had  that  you  would  come  and  pass  two  or  three 
weeks  with  us  before  going  eastward  has  come  utterly 
to  nought.  You  should  have  come ;  our  chances  of  see- 
ing one  another  are  narrowing  every  year.  But  we  will 
not  dwell  gloomily  upon  it.  We  may  live  three  or  four 
years  longer,  —  people  do ;  and  I  think  I  am  more 
afiraid  of  a  longer  than  of  a  shorter  term. 


Letters.  339 

The  "  pain  at  heart,"  of  which  you  speak  at  putting  a 
wider  space  between  us,  is  what  I,  too,  have  felt ;  and 
your  thoughts,  taken  literally,  are  pleasant,  while  spirit- 
ualized, they  are  our  only  resource.  Yes,  the  heavenly 
spaces  unite  us,  while  the  earthly  separate.  Oh  !  could 
we  hiow  that  we  shall  meet  again  when  the  earthly  scene 
closes  !  But  what  we  do  not  know,  we  hope  for,  and  I 
think  the  supports  of  that  hope  increase  with  me.  De- 
velopment for  every  living  creature,  up  to  the  highest  it 
can  reach,  is  the  law  of  its  nature ;  and  why,  according 
to  that  law,  should  not  the  poorest  human  creatures  —  the 
very  troglodytes,  the  cave-dwellers  —  rise,  till  all  that  is 
infolded  in  their  being  should  be  brought  forth  ?  Where 
and  how,  is  in  the  counsels  and  resources  of  infinite 
power  and  goodness.  Where  and  how  creatures  should 
begin  to  exist  would  be  as  much  mysterious  to  us  as 
where  and  how  they  should  go  on. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  April  22,  1877. 
Dear  Hospitality,  —  I  minded  much  what  you  said 
about  my  coming  down  in  May,  but  I  have  been  so  dis- 
couraged about  myself  for  six  weeks  past,  that  I  have 
not  wanted  to  write  to  you,  —  besieged  by  rheumatism 
from  top  to  toe ;  in  my  ankle,  so  that  I  could  not  walk, 
only  limp  about ;  in  my  left  arm,  so  that  I  could  not  lift 
it  to  my  head,  and,  of  course,  a  pretty  uncomfortable 
housekeeper  all  that  time.  Nevertheless,  I  expect  May 
to  bring  me  out  again,  and  do  think  sometimes  that  I 
may  take  C.  with  me,  and  run  down  for  two  or  three 
days.  ...  I  am  reading  the  Martineau  book,  skip- 
pingly. ...  It  seems  that  Miss  M.  was  not  an  atheist, 


340  Letters. 

after  all.  She  believed  in  a  First  Cause,  only  denying 
that  it  is  the  God  of  theology,  —  which  who  does  not 
deny?  —  denying,  indeed,  with  Herbert  Spencer,  that  it 
is  knowable.  But  if  they  say  that  it  is  not  knowable, 
how  do  they  know  but  it  is  that  which  they  deny? 
'  Miss  Martineau's  passing  out  of  this  world  in  utter 
indifference  as  to  what  would  become  of  her,  seems  to 
me  altogether  unnatural,  on  her  ground  or  any  other. 
Any  good  or  glad  hold  on  existence  impUes  the  desire 
for  its  continuance.  She  had  no  hope  nor  wish  for  it, 
as  well  as  no  belief  in  it. 

As  to  belief  in  it,  or  hope  of  it,  why  should  not  the 
law  of  development  lead  to  such  a  feeling  ?  The  plant, 
having  within  it  the  power  to  produce  flower  and  fruit, 
does  not  naturally  die  till  it  comes  to  that  maturity. 
The  horse  or  ox  attains  to  its  full  strength  and  speed 
before  its  hfe  is  ended.  Why  should  it  not  be  so  with 
man?  His  powers  are  not  half,  rather  say  not  one- 
hundredth  part,  developed,  when  he  arrives  at  that  point 
which  is  called  death.  Development  is  impossible  to  him, 
unless  he  continues  to  exist,  and  to  go  onward.  And 
why  should  not  the  same  argument  apply  to  what  may 
trouble  some  people  to  think  of,  —  that  is,  to  the  three 
hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  China,  or  even  the  troglo- 
dytes, the  cave-dwellers?  To  our  weakness  and  igno- 
rance, it  may  seem  easier  to  sweep  the  planet  clean 
every  two  or  three  generations.  But  of  the  realms 
and  resources  of  Infinite  Power,  what  can  we  know  or 
judge? 

Until  this  spring,  my  father's  health  had  been 
exceptionally  good,  notwithstanding  his  allusions 
to  increasing  infirmities.     Indeed,  apart  from  his 


Letters.  341 

brain  trouble,  he  had  always  been  so  well  that  any 
interruption  to  his  physical  vigor  astonished  and 
rather  dismayed  him.  His  sleep  was  habitually 
good,  and  his  waking  was  like  that  of  a  child, 
frolicsome  in  the  return  to  life.  He  was  never 
merrier  than  early  in  the  morning,  and  his  toilet 
was  a  very  active  one.  He  took  an  air-bath  for 
fifteen  minutes,  during  which  he  briskly  exercised 
himself,  —  and  this  custom  he  thought  of  great 
importance  in  hardening  the  body  against  cold. 
Then,  after  washing,  dressing,  and  shaving, 
breakfast  must  come  at  once,  —  delay  was  not 
conducive  to  peace  in  the  household ;  and  im- 
mediately after  breakfast  he  sat  down  to  his  desk 
for  one,  two,  or  three  hours,  as  the  case  might  be. 
He  was  singularly  tolerant  of  little  interruptions, 
although  he  did  not  like  to  have  any  one  in  his 
room  while  he  was  writing,  and  when  his  morn- 
ing's task  was  done,  especially  if  he  were  satisfied 
with  it,  he  came  out  in  excellent  spirits,  and  ready 
for  outdoor  exercise.  He  walked  a  great  deal  in 
New  York,  but  never  without  an  errand.  It  was 
very  seldom,  either  in  town  or  country,  that  he 
walked  for  the  walk's  sake;  but  at  St.  David's 
he  spent  an  hour  or  two  every  day  at  hard  work 
either  in  the  garden  or  at  the  wood-pile,  and  made 
a  daily  visit  in  all  weathers  to  the  village  and  the 
post-ofiice. 

After  his  early  dinner  he  invariably  took  a 
nap ;  and  after  tea,  went  again  to  his  desk  for  an 
hour,  and  then  came  to  the  parlor  for  the  even- 


342  Letters. 

ing's  amusement,  whether  reading,  or  music,  or 
talk,  or  a  game  of  whist,  of  which  he  was  very- 
fond  ;  and  in  all  these  occupations  his  animation 
was  so  unfailing,  his  interest  so  cordial,  that  fam- 
ily and  guests  gladly  followed  his  leadership. 

But  in  this  spring  of  1877  the  rheumatic  attack 
of  which  he  speaks  was  the  beginning  of  a  state 
of  languor  which  in  July  became  low  bilious 
fever.  He  was  not  very  ill ;  kept  his  bed  only 
one  day,  and  by  the  autumn  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  walk  out;  but  from  that  time  he  was 
an  invalid,  and  he  never  again  left  his  home. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  May  4,  1877. 
Dear  Friend,  and  Friends,  —  I  see  that  I  cannot  do 
it.  You  ought  to  be  glad,  not  that  I  cannot,  and  indeed 
that  would  not  be  strictly  true,  but  that  I  do  not  judge 
it  best.  I  really  think  that  I  myself  should  be  afraid  of 
a  man,  that  is,  of  a  man-vtsilor,  in  his  eighty-fourth  year. 
But  what  decides  me  now  is  that  my  rheumatism  still 
holds  on  to  me,  and  does  not  seem  inclined  to  let  me 
go,  or  rather  to  let  go  of  me.  This  weather,  chilly  and 
penetrating  to  the  bones  and  marrow,  is  a  clencher.  I 
do  not  walk,  but  only  creep  about  the  house,  and  can't 
easily  dress  myself  yet ;  all  which  shows  where  I  ought 
to  be.  What  a  curious  thing  it  is  !  I  had  n't  a  bit  of 
rheumatism  all  winter  till  March  came,  and  never  had 
any  before.  Was  n't  it  the  Amalekites  that  were  smitten 
"  hip  and  thigh  "  ?  Well,  I  am  an  Amalekite,  and  no 
more  expected  to  be  knocked  over  so  than  they  did. 


Letters.  343 

I  have  read  with  extraordinary  pleasure  Frank  Pea- 
body's  sermon  on  "  Faith  and  Freedom."  I  saw  it  in 
the  "  Index."  I  don't  know  when  I  have  read  anything 
so  fine,  from  any  of  our  young  men.  ...  As  to  the  lim- 
itations of  free-will,  even  more  marked  than  those  of 
heredity  and  association  are  those  imposed  by  the  law 
of  our  nature.  I  am  not  free  to  think  that  two  and  two 
make  five,  or  that  a  wicked  action  is  good  and  right. 
But  am  I  not  free  to  pursue  the  worst  as  well  as  the 
best  ?    But  I  am  not  fit  to  discuss  anything. 

To  the  Same. 

Dec.  13,  1877. 

Yesterday  the  mail  brought  me  Furness's  new  book, 
"  The  Power  of  Spirit,"  and  I  have  already  read  half  of 
it.  It  seems  to  be  the  finishing  up  of  what  may  be 
called  his  life-work,  that  is,  the  setting  forth  of  the  char- 
acter of  the  Master.  The  book  is  very  interesting,  and 
not  merely  a  repetition  of  what  he  has  said  before.  To 
be  sure,  I  cannot  go  along  with  him  when  he  maintains 
that  the  power  of  Christ's  spirit  naturally  produced  those 
results  which  are  called  miracles.  You  know  what  Stet- 
son said,  —  that  if  that  were  true,  Channing  ought  to  be 
able  to  cure  a  cut  finger.  But  the  earnestness,  the  elo- 
quence, the  spirit  of  faith  pervading  the  book  are  very 
charming.  Look  into  it,  if  you  can  get  hold  of  it.  The 
chapter  on  Faith  in  Christ  is  very  admirable,  and  that 
on  Easter  is  a  very  curious  and  adroit  piece  of  criticism. 
I  wish  that  Fumess  would  not  be  so  confident,  consider- 
ing the  grounds  he  goes  upon,  and  that  he  would  not 
write  so  darkly  upon  the  materialism  of  the  age. 


344  Letters. 


To  the  Same. 

St.  David's,  Feb.  i,  1878. 
How  I  should  like  to  take  such  a  professional  bout  as 
you  have  had  !  Now  I  wish  you  could  sit  down  by  my 
side  and  teU  me  all  about  it.  I  think  preaching  was 
always  my  greatest  pleasure ;  and  in  my  dreams  now  I 
think  I  am  oftenest  going  to  preach.  People  try  to  sum 
up  the  good  that  life  is  to  them.  I  think  it  lies  most  in 
activity.  Bartol,  and  that  grand  soul,  Clarke,  discussed 
it  much. 

To  the  Same. 

May  13,  1878. 

Dear  Friend, —  I  am  so  much  indebted  to  your 
good  long  letters,  that  I  am  ashamed  to  take  my  pen  to 
reply.  ... 

Your  Sanitary  Commission  Report  came  to  hand 
two  days  ago,  and  I  began  at  once  to  read  it,  and 
finished  it  without  stopping,  greatly  interested  in  all 
the  details,  and  greatly  pleased  with  the  spirit.  What 
a  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  take  such  a  part  in  our 
great  struggle  !  I  cannot  write  about  it,  nor  anything 
else,  as  I  want  to,  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  I  have  a 
strange  reluctance  to  touch  my  pen. 

I  see  that  the  death  of  Miss  Catherine  Beecher  is 
announced.  There  were  fine  things  about  her.  What 
must  she  not  have  suffered,  of  late  years  !  But  I  am 
disposed  to  say  of  the  release  of  every  aged  person, 
"  Euthanasia." 

\(ith.  I  will  finish  this  and  get  it  off  to  you  before 
Sunday.  You  have  a  great  deal  to  do  before  vacation. 
Let  me  enjoin  it  upon  you  to  have  a  vacation  when  the 


Letters.  345 

time  comes.  Don't  spend  your  strength  and  life  too 
fast.  Live  to  educate  those  fine  boys.  Thank  you  for 
sending  us  their  picture.  See  what  Fumess  does.  That 
article  on  Immortality  is  as  good  as  anything  he  ever 
wrote.  Did  you  read  the  paper  on  the  Radiometer  in  the 
last  "  Popular  Science  "  ?  What  a  (not  world  merely) 
but  universe  do  we  live  in  !  I  am  not  willing  to  go  out 
of  the  world  without  knowing  all  I  can  know  of  these 
wonders  that  fill  alike  the  heavens  above  and  every  inch 
of  space  beneath.  What  a  glorious  future  will  it  be,  if 
we  may  spend  uncounted  years  in  the  study  of  them  ! 
And,  notwithstanding  the  weight  of  matter-of-fact  that 
seems  to  lie  against  it,  I  think  my  hope  of  it  increases. 
This  blessed  sense  of  what  it  is  to  be,  —  this  sweetness 
of  existence, — why  should  it  be  given  us  to  be  lost 
forever? 

To  the  Same. 

St.  T>KN\V)^%,June  16,  1878. 
.  .  .  One  point  in  your  letter  strikes  very  deep  into 
my  experience,  —  that  in  which  you  speak  of  my  "  stand- 
ing so  long  upon  the  verge."  To  stand  as  I  do,  within 
easy  reach  of  such  stupendous  possibilities,  —  that  of 
being  translated  to  another  sphere  of  existence,  or  of 
being  cut  off  from  existence  altogether  and  forever,  — 
does  indeed  fill  me  with  awe,  and  make  me  wonder  that 
I  am  not  depressed  or  overwhelmed  by  it.  Habit  is  a 
stream  which  flows  on  the  same,  no  matter  how  the 
scenery  changes.  It  seems  as  if  routine  wore  away  the 
very  sense  of  the  words  we  use.  We  speak  often  of 
immortality;  the  word  slides  easily  over  our  lips;  but 
do  we  consider  what  it  means  ?  Do  you  ever  ask  your- 
self whether,  after  having  lived  a  hundred  thousands  or 


346  Letters. 

millions  of  years,  you  could  still  desire  to  go  on  for 
millions  more  ?  —  whether  a  Jimited,  conscious  existence 
could  bear  it  ? 

L read  the  foregoing,  and  said,  "  I  don't  see  any 

need  of  considering  matters  so  entirely  out  of  our 
reach ; "  but  the  question  is,  can  we  help  it  ?  Fearfully 
and  wonderfully  are  we  made,  but  in  nothing,  perhaps, 
more  than  this,  —  that  we  are  put  upon  considering 
questions  concerning  God,  immortaUty,  the  mystery  of 
life,  which  are  so  entirely  beyond  our  reach  to  com- 
prehend. 

To  the  JSaTtie. 

St.  DAvm's,  July  19,  1879. 
Dear  Friend,  —  After  our  long  silence,  if  it  was  the 
duty  of  the  ghost  to  speak  first,  I  think  it  should  have 
been  me,  who  am  twenty  years  nearer  to  being  one  than 
you  are ;  but  it  would  be  hardly  becoming  in  a  ghost  to 
be  as  funny  as  you  are  about  Henry  and  the  hot  weather. 
A  change  has  come  now,  and  the  dear  little  fellow  may 
put  as  many  questions  as  he  will.  It  is  certainly  a  very 
extraordinary  season.  I  remember  nothing  quite  so 
remarkable. 

Have  you  Professor  Brown's  "  Life  of  Choate  "  by 
you?  If  you  have,  do  read  what  he  says  of  Walter 
Scott,  in  vol.  i.,  from  p.  204  on.  I  often  turn  to  Scott's 
pages  now,  in  preference  to  almost  anything  else,  as  I 
should  to  the  old  masters  in  painting. 

Good-by.  Cold  morning,  —  cold  fingers,  —  cold 
everything,  but  my  love  for  you  and  yours. 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  347 


To  the  Same. 

St.  David's,  April  14,  1880. 
My  Dearest  Young  Friend,  —  For  three  or  four 
years  I  have  thought  your  mind  was  having  a  new  birth, 
and  now  it  is  more  evident  than  ever.  Everybody  will 
tell  you  that  your  Newport  word  is  not  only  finer  than 
mine,  but  finer,  I  think,  than  anything  else  that  has  been 
said  of  Channing.  The  first  part  was  grand  and  ad- 
mirable ;  the  last,  more  than  admirable,  —  unequalled, 
I  think.  ... 

Take  care  of  yourself.  Don't  write  too  much.  Your 
long,  pleasant  letter  to  me  shows  how  ready  you  are  to 
do  it.  May  you  live  to  enjoy  the  budding  life  around 
you.  .  .  . 

My  writing  tells  you  that  I  shan't  last  much  longer. 
*  Then  keep  fresh  the  memory  of 

Your  loving  friend, 

Orville  Dewey. 


To  the  Same. 

June  15,  1880. 

Dear  Friend,  —  To  think  of  answering  such  a  letter 
as  yours  of  June  5  th  is  too  much  for  me,  let  alone  the 
effort  to  do  it.  It  seems  absurd  for  me  to  have  such  a 
correspondent,  and  would  be,  if  he  were  not  of  the 
dearest  of  friends.  For"  its  pith  and  keenness,  I  have 
read  over  this  last  letter  two  or  three  times.  ...  I  see 
that  you  won't  come  here  in  June.  Don't  try.  That 
is,  don't  let  my  condition  influence  you.  I  shall  proba- 
bly, too  probably,  continue  to  live  along  for  some 
time,  as  I  have  done.      No  pain,  sound  sleep,  good 


348  Letters. 

digestion,  —  what  must  follow  from  all  this,  I  dread  to 
think  of.  Only  the  weakness  in  my  limbs  —  in  the 
branches,  so  to  say  —  admonishes  me  that  the  tree  may 
fall  sooner  than  I  expect. 

Love  to  all,  O.  D. 


To  his  Sister,  Miss  J.  Dewey. 

St.  David's,  Oct.  13,  1880. 
Dearest  Sister,  —  Why  do  you  tell  me  such  "  tells," 
when  I  don't  believe  a  bit  in  them?  However,!  do  make 
a  reservation  for  my  preaching  ten  years  in  New  Bedford 
and  ten  in  New  York.  They  could  furnish  about  the 
only  "  tells  "  in  my  life  worth  telling,  if  there  were  any- 
body to  tell  'em.  Nobody  seems  to  understand  what 
preaching  is.  George  Curtis  does  his  best  two  or  three 
times  a  year.  The  preacher  has  to  do  it  every  Sunday. 
I  agree  with  you  about  Bryant's  "  Forest  Hymn."  I 
enjoy  it  more  than  anything  he  ever  wrote,  except  the 
"Waterfowl." 

Yours  always, 

Orville  Dewey. 


To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  David's,  Dec.  24,  1880. 
Dear  Friend,  —  My  wife  must  write  you  about  the 
parcel  of  books  which  came  to  hand  yesterday  and  was 
opened  in  the  midst  of  us  with  due  admiration,  and  with 
pleasure  at  the  prospect  it  held  out  for  the  winter.  My 
wife,  I  say ;  for  she  is  the  great  reader,  while  I  am,  in 
comparison,  like  the  owl,  which  the  showman  said  kept 
up — you  remember  what  sort  of  a  thinking.    But,  com- 


Letters.  349 

parisons  apart,  it  is  really  interesting  to  see  how  much 
she  reads  ;  how  she  keeps  acquainted  with  what  is 
going  on  in  the  world,  especially  in  its  philanthropic  and 
religious  work. 

Then,  in  the  old  Bible  books  she  is  the  greatest 
reader  that  I  know.  I  wish  you  could  hear  her  expa- 
tiate on  David  and  Isaiah ;  and  she  is  in  the  right,  too. 
They  leave  behind  them,  in  a  rude  barbarism  of  religious 
ideas,  Egypt  and  Greece.  By  the  bye,  is  it  not  strange 
that  the  two  great  literatures  of  antiquity,  the  Hebrew 
and  Grecian,  should  have  appeared  in  territories  not 
larger  than  Rhode  Island  ?  This  is  contrary  to  Buckle's 
view,  who  says,  if  I  remember  rightly,  that  the  litera- 
ture of  genius  naturally  springs  from  a  rich  soil,  from 
great  wealth  and  leisure  demanding  intellectual  enter- 
tainment. 


To  his  Sister,  Miss  J.  Dewey. 

St.  David's,  April  4,  1881. 

Dearest  Rushe,  —  ...  I  am  glad  at  what  you  are 
doing  about  the  "  Helps,"  ^  and  especially  at  your  tak- 
ing in  the  "  Bugle  Notes."  Of  course  it  gives  you 
trouble,  but  don't  be  anxious  about  it ;  't  will  all  come 
out  right.  The  book  has  met  with  great  favor,  whereat 
I  am  much  pleased,  as  you  must  be. 

Yes,  Carlyle's  "  Reminiscences  "  must  be  admired ;  but 
it  will  take  all  the  sweets  about  his  wife  to  neutralize  his 

*  "  Helps  to  Devout  Living  "  is  the  name  of  a  collection  of 
beautiful  and  valuable  passages,  in  prose  and  verse,  compiled  by 
Miss  J.  Dewey,  in  the  second  edition  of  which  she  included,  at 
her  brother's  request,  Mr.  Wasson's  "  Bugle  Notes,"  a  poem 
which  had  been  for  years  one  of  his  peculiar  favorites. 


350  Letters. 

supreme  care  for  himself,  and  careless  disparagement  of 
almost  everybody  else.  Genius  is  said  to  be,  in  its  very 
nature,  loving  and  generous ;  it  seems  but  the  fit  recog- 
nition of  its  own  blessedness  ;  was  his  so  ?  I  have  been 
reading  again  "Adam  Sede,"  and  I  think  that  the  author 
is  decidedly  and  unquestionably  superior  to  all  her  con- 
!  temporary  novel-writers.  One  can  forgive  such  a  mind 
almost  anything.  But  alas  !  for  this  one  —  ...  It  is 
an  almost  unpardonable  violation  of  one  of  the  great 
laws  on  which  social  virtue  rests.  .  .  . 

Ever  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  Rev.  Henry   W.  Bellows,  D.D. 

St.  'DA.YiT>'?,,June  30,  188 1. 
.  .  .  Since  reading  Freeman  Clarke's  book,  I  have 
been  thinking  of  the  steps  of  the  world's  religious  prog- 
ress. The  Aryan  idea,  so  far  as  we  know  anjlhing  of 
it,  was  probably  to  worship  nature.  The  Greek  idola- 
try was  a  step  beyond  that,  substituting  intelligent  beings 
for  it.  Far  higher  was  the  Hebrew  spiritualism,  and 
worship  of  One  Supreme,  and  far  higher  is  Isaiah  than 
Homer,  David  than  Sophocles ;  and  no  Hebrew  prophet 
ever  said,  "  Offer  a  cock  to  Esculapius."  So  is  Chris- 
tianity far  beyond  Buddhism;  and  far  beyond  Sakya 
Muni,  dim  and  obscure  as  he  is,  are  the  concrete  reali- 
ties of  the  hfe  of  Jesus.  Whether  anything  further  is  to 
come,  I  tremble  to  ask ;  and  yet  I  .do  ask  it. 


Letters.  351 


To  the  Same. 

July  23,  1881. 

Dear,  nay,  Dearest  Friend,  —  What  shall  I  say,  in 
what  language  express  the  sense  of  comfort  and  satisfac- 
tion which,  first  your  sermon  years  ago,i  and  now  your 
letter  of  yesterday,  have  given  me  ?  Ah  !  there  is  a  spot 
in  every  human  soul,  I  guess,  where  approbation  is  the 
sweetest  drop  that  can  fall.  I  will  not  imbitter  it  with 
a  word  of  doubt  or  debate.  .  .  . 

Come  here  when  you  can.     With  love  to  all. 

Ever  yours, 

O.  D. 

^  To  the  Same. 

St.  David's,  Sept.  23,  188 1. 

Dear  Friend,  —  I  am  waiting  with  what  patience  I 
can,  to  hear  whether  you  have  been  to  Meadville  or  not. 
...  In  that  lovely  but  just  picture  which  you  draw 
of  my  wife,  and  praise  her  patience  at  the  expense  of 
mine,  I  doubt  whether  you  fairly  take  into  account  the 
difference  between  the  sexes,  not  only  in  their  nature, 
but  in  their  functions.  We  men  take  a  forward,  leading, 
decisive  part  in  affairs,  the  women  an  acquiescent  part. 
The  consequence  is  that  they  are  more  yielding,  gentler 
under  defeat,  than  we.  When  I  said,  yesterday,  "  It 
costs  men  more  to  be  patient,  to  be  virtuous,  than  it 
costs  you,"  —  "  Oh  !  oh  !  "  they  exclaimed.  But  it  is 
true.  .  .  . 

Sept.  z(i. 

What  a  day  is  this  !  A  weeping  nation,  in  all  its 
thousand  churches  and  million  homes,  participates  in  the 

1  See  p.  358. 


352  Letters. 

mournful  solemnities  at  Cleveland.  A  great  kindred 
nation  takes  part  in  our  sorrow.  Its  queen,  the  Queen 
of  England,  sends  her  sympathy,  deeper  than  words, 
to  the  mourning,  queenly  relict  of  our  noble  President. 
Never  shall  I,  or  my  children  to  the  fourth  generation, 
probably,  see  such  a  day.  Never  was  the  whole  world 
gurdled  in  by  one  sentiment  like  this  of  to-day. 

To  the  Same. 

St.  David's,  _/a«.  i,  1882. 
.  .  .  For  a  month  or  two  I  have  been  feeling  as  if 
the  year  would  never  end.  But  it  has  come,  and  here 
is  the  beginning  of  a  new.  And  of  what  year  ef  the 
world  ?  Who  knows  anything  about  it  ?  Do  you  ?  does 
anybody?  What  is,  or  can  be,  known  of  a  human  race  on 
this  globe  more  than  4,000  years  ago  —  or  4,000,000? 
Oh  !  this  dreadful  ignorance  !  Fain  would  I  go  to  an- 
other world,  if  it  would  clear  up  the  problems  of  this. 

All  I  can  do  is  to  fall  upon  the  knees  of  my  heart  and 
say,  "  O  God,  let  the  vision  of  Thy  glory  never  be  hid- 
den from  my  eyes  in  this  world  or  any  other,  but  forever 
grow  brighter  and  brighter  !  " 

We  have  had  some  bad  and  some  sad  times  here. 
M.  must  tell  you  about  them. 

Happy  New  Year  to  you  all. 

Orville  Dewey. 

It  was  now  nearly  five  years  that  my  father  had 
trod  the  weary  path  of  invalidism,  slowly  weaning 
him  from  the  familiar  life  and  ties  he  loved  so 


Letters.  353 

well.  The  master's  interest  was  as  large,  as  keen 
as  ever;  friendship,  patriotism,  religion,  were 
even  dearer  to  him  than  when  he  was  strong  to 
work  in  their  service ;  but  the  ready  servants  that 
had  so  long  stood  by  him,  —  the  ear,  always 
open  to  each  new  word  of  hope  and  promise  for 
humanity;  the  eye,  that  looked  with  eager  pleas- 
ure on  every  noble  work  of  man  and  on  every 
natural  object,  seeing  in  all,  manifestations  of  the 
Divine  Goodness  and  Wisdom ;  the  feet,  that  had 
carried  him  so  often  on  errands  of  kindness ;  the 
hands,  whose  clasp  had  cheered  many  a  sad 
heart,  and  whose  hold  upon  the  pen  had  sent 
strong  and  stirring  words  through  the  land, —  these 
gradually  resigned  their  functions,  and  the  active 
but  tired  brain,  which  had  held  on  so  bravely, 
notwithstanding  the  injury  it  had  received  in 
early  life,  began  to  share  in  the  general  decline 
of  the  vital  powers.  There  was  no  disease,  no 
deflection  of  aim  nor  confusion  of  thought,  but 
a  gentle  failure  of  faculties  used  up  by  near  a 
century's  wear  and  tear. 

He  was  somewhat  grieved  and  harassed  by  the 
spiritual  problems  which  were  always  the  chief 
occupation  of  his  mind,  and  which  he  now  per- 
ceived, without  being  able  to  grapple  with  them ; 
and  life,  with  such  mental  and  physical  limitations, 
became  very  weary  to  him.  But  his  constitution 
was  so  sound,  and  his  health  so  perfect,  that  he 
might  have  lingered  yet  a  long  time,  but  for  his 
grief  and  disappointment  in  the  unexpected  death 
23 


354  Letters. 

of  Dr.  Bellows,  Jan.  30,  1882.  When  that  be- 
loved friend,  upon  whose  inspiring  ministrations 
he  had  counted  to  soothe  his  own  last  hours,  was 
called  first,  the  shock  perceptibly  loosened  his 
feeble  hold  on  life ;  and  truly  it  seemed  as  if  the 
departing  spirit  did  his  last  service  of  love  by 
helping  to  set  free  the  elder  friend  whom  he 
could  no  longer  comfort  on  earth.     He 

"  Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way  ;  " 

nor  was  my  father  long  in  following  him.  For  a 
few  weeks  there  was  little  outward  change  in  his 
habits ;  he  ate  as  usual  the  few  morsels  we  could 
induce  him  to  taste ;  he  slept  several  hours  every 
night,  and,  supported  by  faithful  arms,  he  came 
to  the  table  for  each  meal  till  within  four  days 
of  his  death.  But  he  grew  visibly  weaker,  and 
would  sit  long  silent,  his  head  bent  on  his  breast. 
We  gathered  together  in  those  sad  days,  and  read 
aloud  the  precious  series  of  Dr.  Bellows's  letters 
to  us  all,  but  principally  to  him, —  letters  radiant 
with  beauty,  vigor,  wit,  and  affection;  we  read 
them  with  thankfulness  and  with  sorrow,  with 
laughter  and  with  tears,  and  he  joined  in  it  all, 
but  grew  too  weary  to  listen,  and  never  heard  the 
whole.  He  was  confined  to  his  bed  but  three 
days.  A  slight  indigestion,  which  yielded  to 
remedies,  left  him  too  weak  to  rally.  He  was 
delirious  most  of  the  time  when  awake,  and  was 
soothed  by  anodynes ;  but  though .  he  knew  us 
all,  he  was  too  sick  and  restless  for  talk,  trying 


Letters.  355 

sometimes  to  smile  in  answer  to  his  wife's  ca- 
resses, but  hardly  noticing  anything.  At  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning  of  March  2ist,  his  sad 
moans  suddenly  ceased,  and  he  opened  his 
sunken  eyes  wide,  —  so  wide  that  even  in  the 
dim  light  we  saw  their  clear  blue,  —  looked  for- 
ward for  a  moment  with  an  earnest  gaze,  as  if 
seeing  something  afar  off,  then  closed  them,  and 
with  one  or  two  quiet  breaths  left  pain  and  suf- 
fering behind,  and  entered  into  life. 

For  a  few  days  his  body  lay  at  rest  in  his  pleas- 
ant study,  surrounded  by  the  flowers  he  loved, 
and  the  place  was  a  sweet  domestic  shrine.  A 
grand  serenity  had  returned  to  the  brow,  and  all 
the  features  wore  a  look  of  peace  and  happiness 
unspeakably  beautiful  and  comforting.  Then, 
with  a  quiet  attendance  of  friends  and  neighbors, 
it  was  borne  to  the  grave  in  the  shadow  of  his 
native  hills. 

In  those  last  weeks  he  wrote  still  a  few  letters, 
almost  illegible,  and  written  a  few  lines  at  a  time, 
as  his  strength  permitted. 

To  Rev.  John  W.  Chadwick. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  2,  1882. 
My  Dear  Brother  Chadwick,  —  A  few  lines  are  all 
that  I  can  write,  though  many  would  hardly  suffice  to 
express  the  feeling  of  what  I  owe  you  for  your  kind  let- 
ter, and  the  sympathy  it  expresses  for  the  loss  of  my 
friend. 


35^  Letters. 

You  will  better  understand  what  that  is,  when  I  tell 
you  that  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  he  has  written 
me  every  week. 

I  have  also  to  thank  you  for  the  many  sermons  you 
have  directed  to  be  sent  to  me.  Through  others,  I  know 
their  extraordinary  merit,  though  my  brain  is  too  weak 
for  them. 

Do  you  remember  a  brief  interview  I  had  with  you 
and  Mrs.  Chadwick  at  the ''  Messiah  "  on  the  evening  of 
the  [Semi-]  Centennial  ?  It  gave  me  so  much  pleasure 
that  it  sticks  in  my  memory,  and  emboldens  me  to  send 
my  love  to  you  both. 

Ever  yours  truly, 

Orville  Dewey. 

To  his  Sister,  Miss  J.  Dewey. 

St.  David's,  Feb.  7,  1882. 

Dearest  Rushe,  —  Your  precious,  sweet  little  letter 
came  in  due  time,  and  was  all  that  a  letter  could  be.  I 
have  not  written  a  word  since  that  came  upon  us  which 
we  so  sorrow  for,  except  a  letter  to  his  stricken  partner, 
from  whom  we  have  a  reply  last  evening,  in  which  she  says 
his  resignation  was  marvellous ;  that  he  soon  fell  into  a 
drowse  from  morphine,  and  said  but  little,  but,  being 
told  there  were  letters  from  me,  desired  them  to  keep 
them  carefully  for  him,  —  which,  alas  !  he  was  never  to 
see. 

Dear,  I  can  write  no  more.  I  am  all  the  time  about 
the  same.     Give  my  love  to  Pamela. 

Ever  your  loving  brother, 

Orville  Dewey. 


Letters.  357 


To  Rev.  John  W.  Chadwick. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  26,  1882. 

My  Dear  Chadwick,  —  When  Mary  wrote  to  you, 
expressing  the  feelings  of  us  all  concerning  the  Memorial 
Sermon,  1  I  thought  it  unnecessary  to  write  myself,  es- 
pecially as  I  could  but  so  poorly  say  what  I  wanted  to 
say.  But  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you  what  satisfaction  it 
gave  me,  —  more  than  I  have  elsewhere  seen  or  expect  to 
see.  I  feel,  for  myself,  that  I  most  mourn  the  loss  of  the 
holy  fidelity  of  his  friendship.  All  speak  rightly  of  his 
incessant  activity  in  every  good  work,  and  I  knew  much 
of  what  he  did  to  build  up  a  grand  School  of  Theology 
at  Cleveland. 

You  ask  what  is  my  outlook  from  the  summit  of  my 
years.  This  reminds  me  of  that  wonderful  burst  of  his 
eloquence,  at  the  formation  of  our  National  Conference, 
against  the  admission  to  it,  by  Constitution,  of  the  ex- 
tremest  Radicalism.  I  wanted  to  get  up  and  shortly 
reply,  —  "  You  may  say  what  you  will,  but  I  tell  you 
that  the  movement  of  this  body  for  twenty  years  to 
come  will  be  in  the  Radical  direction."  In  fact,  I  find 
it  to  be  so  in  myself.  I  rely  more  upon  my  own  thought 
and  reason,  my  own  mind  and  being,  for  my  convictions 
than  upon  anything  else.  Again  warmly  thanking  you 
for  your  grand  sermon,  I  am. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Orville  Dewey. 

1  On  Dr.  Bellows. 


358  Letters. 

I  feel  that  I  cannot  close  this  memoir  without- 
reprinting  the  beautiful  tribute  paid  to  my  father 
by  Dr.  Bellows,  in  his  address  at  the  fifty-fourth 
anniversary  of  the  founding  of  the  Church  of  the 
Messiah,  in  New  York,  in  1879.  After  compar- 
ing him  with  Dr.  Channing,  and  describing  the 
fragile  appearance  of  the  latter,  he  said :  — 

"  Dewey,  reared  in  the  country,  among  plain  but  not 
common  people,  squarely  built,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of 
what  seemed  robust  health,  had,  when  I  first  saw  him, 
at  forty  years  of  age,  a  massive  dignity  of  person  \  strong 
features,  a  magnificent  height  of  head,  a  carriage  almost 
royal ;  a  voice  deep  and  solemn ;  a  face  capable  of  the 
utmost  expression,  and  an  action  which  the  greatest 
tragedian  could  not  have  much  improved.  These  were 
not  arts  and  attainments,  but  native  gifts  of  person  and 
temperament.  An  intellect  of  the  first  class  had  fallen 
upon  a  spiritual  nature  tenderly  alive  to  the  sense  of  di- 
vine realities.  His  awe  and  reverence  were  native,  and 
they  have  proved  indestructible.  He  did  not  so  much  seek 
religion  as  religion  sought  him.  .  His  nature  was  charac- 
terized from  early  youth  by  a  union  of  massive  intellec- 
tual power  with  an  almost  feminine  sensibility ;  a  poetic 
imagination  with  a  rare  dramatic  faculty  of  representa-. 
tion.  Diligent  as  a  scholar,  a  careful  thinker,  accus- 
tomed to  test  his  own  impressions  by  patient  meditation, 
a  reasoner  of  the  most  cautious  kind ;  capable  of  hold- 
ing doubtful  conclusions,  however  inviting,  in  suspense ; 
devout  and  revei-ent  by  nature,  —  he  had  every  qualifica- 
tion for  a  great  preacher,  in  a  time  when  the  old  founda- 
tions were  broken  up  and  men's  minds  were  demanding 
guidance  and  support  in  the  critical  transition  from  the 


Letters.  359 

days  of  pure  authority  to  the  days  of  personal  conviction 
by  rational  evidence. 

"Dewey  has  from  the  beginning  been  the  most  truly 
human  of  our  preachers.  Nobody  has  felt  so  fully  the 
providential  variety  of  mortal  passions,  exposures,  the 
beauty  and  happiness  of  our  earthly  life,  the  lawfulness 
of  our  ordinary  pursuits,  the  significance  of  home,  of 
business,  of  pleasure,  of  society,  of  politics.  He  has 
made  himself  the  attorney  of  human  nature,  defending 
and  justifying  it  in  all  the  hostile  suits  brought  against 
it  by  imperfect  sympathy,  by  theological  acrimony,  by 
false  dogmas.  Yet  he  never  was  for  a  moment  the 
apologist  of  selfishness,  vice,  or  folly ;  no  stricter  moral- 
ist than  he  is  to  be  found ;  no  worshipper  of  veracity 
more  faithful ;  no  wiser  or  more  tender  pleader  of  the 
claims  of  reverence  and  self-consecration  !  In  fact,  it 
was  the  richness  of  his  reverence  and  the  breadth  of  his 
religion  that  enabled  him  to  throw  the  mantle  of  his 
sympathy  over  the  whole  of  human  life.  He  has  ac- 
cordingly, of  all  preachers  in  this  country,  been  the  one 
most  approved  by  the  few  who  maybe  called  whole  men, 
—  men  who  rise  above  the  prejudice  of  sect  and  the 
halfness  of  pietism,  —  lawyers  and  judges,  statesmen  and 
great  merchants,  and  strong  men  of  all  professions. 
He  could  stir  and  awe  and  instruct  the  students  of  Cam- 
bridge, as  no  man  I  ever  heard  in  that  pulpit,  not  even 
Dr.  Walker,  —  who  satisfied  conscience  and  intellect, 
but  was  not  wholly  fair  either  to  passion  or  to  sentiment, 
much  less  to  the  human  body  and  the  world.  Of  all 
religious  men  I  have  known,  the  broadest  and  most 
catholic  is  Dewey,  —  I  say  religious  men,  for  it  is  easy 
to  be  broad  and  catholic,  with  indifference  and  apathy 
at  the  heart.     Dewey  has  cared  unspeakably  for  divine 


36o  Letters. 

things,  —  thirsted  for  God,  and  dwelt  in  daily  reverence 
and  aspiration  before  him  ;  and  out  of  his  awe  -and  his 
devotion  he  has  looked  with  the  tenderest  eyes  of  sym- 
pathy, forbearance,  and  patience  upon  the  world  and 
the  ways  of  men ;  slow  to  rebuke  utterly,  always  finding 
the  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil,  and  never  assuming 
any  sanctimonious  ways,  or  thinking  himself  better  than 
his  brethren. 

"  Dewey  is  undoubtedly  the  founder  and  most  con- 
spicuous example  of  what  is  best  in  the  modern  school  of 
preaching.  The  characteristic  feature  is  the  effort  to  carry 
the  inspiration,  the  correction,  and  the  riches  of  Christian 
faith  into  the  whole  sphere  of  human  Hfe ;  to  make  re- 
ligion practical,  without  lowering  its  ideal  j  to  proclaim  our 
present  world  and  our  mortal  life  as  the  field  of  its  in- 
fluence and  realization,  trusting  that  what  best  fits  men 
to  live  and  employ  and  enjoy  their  spiritual  nature  here, 
is  what  best  prepares  them  for  the  future  life.  Dewey, 
like  Franklin,  who  trained  the  lightning  of  the  sky  to 
respect  the  safety,  and  finally  to  run  the  errands  of  men 
on  earth,  brought  religion  from  its  remote  home  and  do- 
mesticated it  in  the  immediate  present.  He  first  suc- 
cessfully taught  its  application  to  the  business  of  the 
market  and  the  street,  to  the  ofiices  of  home  and  the 
pleasures  of  society.  We  are  so  familiar  with  this  method, 
now  prevalent  in  the  best  pulpits  of  all  Christian  bodies, 
that  we  forget  the  originality  and  boldness  of  the  hand 
that  first  turned  the  current  of  religion  into  the  ordinary 
channel  of  life,  and  upon  the  working  wheels  of  daily 
business.  The  glory  of  the  achievement  is  lost  in  the 
magnificence  of  its  success.  Practical  preaching,  when 
it  means,  as  it  often  does,  a  mere  prosaic  recommenda- 
tion of  ordinary  duties,  a  sort  of  Poor  Richard's  pruden- 


Letters.  361 

tial  maxims,  is  a  shallow  and  nearly  useless  thing.  It  is  a 
kind  of  social  and  moral  agriculture  with  the  plough  and 
the  spade,  but  with  little  regard  to  the  enrichment  of  the 
soil,  or  drainage  from  the  depths  or  irrigation  from  the 
heights.  The  true,  practical  preaching  is  that  which 
brings  the  celestial  truths  of  our  nature  and  our  destiny, 
the  powers  of  the  world  to  come  and  the  terrors  and 
promises  of  our  relationship  to  the  Divine  Being,  to 
bear  upon  our  present  duties,  to  animate  and  elevate 
our  daily  life,  to  sanctify  the  secular,  to  redeem  the  com- 
mon from  its  loss  of  wonder  and  praise,  to  make  the 
familiar  give  up  its  superficial  tameness,  to  awaken  the 
sense  of  awe  in  those  who  have  lost  or  never  acquired 
the  proper  feeling  of  the  spiritual  mystery  that  envel- 
ops our  ordinary  life.  This  was  Dewey's  peculiar  skill. 
Poets  had  already  done  '\tfor  poets,  and  in  a  sense  nei- 
ther strictly  religious  nor  expected  to  be  made  practical. 
But  for  preachers  to  carry '  the  vision  and  faculty  divine  ' 
of  the  poet  into  the  pulpit,  and  with  the  authority  of  mes- 
sengers of  God,  demand  of  men  in  their  business  and 
domestic  service,  their  mechanical  labors,  their  neces- 
sary tasks,  to  see  God's  spirit  and  feel  God's  laws  every- 
where touching,  inspiring,  and  elevating  their  ordinary 
life  and  lot,  was  something  new  and  glorious.  Thus 
Dewey  revitalized  the  doctrine  of  Retribution  by  bring- 
ing it  from  the  realms  of  futurity  down  to  the  immedi- 
ate bosoms  of  men ;  and  nothing  more  solemn,  affecting, 
and  true  is  to  be  found  in  all  literature  than  his  famous 
two  sermons  on  Retribution,  in  the  first  volume  of  his 
published  works.  Spirituality,  in  the  same  manner,  he 
called  away  from  its  ghostly  churchyard  haunts,  and 
made  it  a  cheerful  angel  of  God's  presence  in  the  house 
and  the  shop,  where  the  sense  and  feeling  of  God's  holi- 

5 


362  Letters. 

ness  and  love  make  every  duty  an  act  of  worship,  and 
every  commonest  experience  an  opportunity  of  divme 
service.  Under  the  thoughtful,  tender  yet  searching, 
rational  but  profoundly  spiritual  preaching  of  Dr.  Dewey, 
—  where  men's  souls  found  an  honest  and  powerful  in- 
terpreter, and  nature,  business,  pleasure,  dpmestic  ties, 
received  a  fresh  consecration,  —  who  can  wonder  that 
thousands  of  men  and  women,  hitherto  dissatisfied, 
hungry,  but  with  no  appetite  for  *  the  bread '  called  '  of 
life,'  furnished  at  the  ordinary  churches,  were,  for  the 
first  time,  made  to  realize  the  beauty  of  holiness  and 
the  power  of  the  gospel  of  salvation? 

"The  persuasiveness  of  Dewey  was  another  of  his 
greatest  characteristics.  His  yearning  to  convince,  his 
longing  to  impart  his  own  convictions,  gave  a  candor 
and  patient  and  sweet  reasonableness  to  his  preaching, 
which  has,  I  think,  never  been  equalled  in  any  preacher 
of  his  measure  of  intellect,  height  of  imagination,  and 
reverence  of  soul.  For  he  could  never  lower  his  ideals 
to  please  or  propitiate.  He  was  working  for  no  imme- 
diate and  transitory  effects.  He  could  use  no  arts  that 
entangled,  dazzled,  or  frightened;  nothing  but  truth, 
and  truth  cautiously  discriminated.  His  sermons  were 
bom  of  the  most  painful  labors  of  his  spirit ;  they  were 
careful  and  finished  works,  written  and  rewritten,  re- 
vised, corrected,  improved,  almost  as  if  they  had  been 
poems  addressed  to  the  deliberate  judgment  of  posterity. 
They  possess  that  claim  upon  coming  generations,  and 
will,  one  day,  rediscovered  by  a  deeper  and  better  spir- 
itual taste,  take  their  place  among  the  noblest  and  most 
exquisite  of  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  products  of  this 
century.  There  are  thousands  of  the  best  minds  in  this 
country  that  owe  whatever  interest  they  have  in  religion 


Letters.  363 

to  Orville  Dewey.  The  majesty  of  his  manner,  the  dra- 
matic power  of  his  action,  the  poetic  beauty  of  his  illus- 
trations, the  logical  clearness  and  fairness  of  his  reasoning, 
the  depth  and  grasp  of  his  hold  on  all  the  facts,  human 
and  divine,  material  and  spiritual,  that  belonged  to  the 
theme  he  treated,  gave  him  a  surpassing  power  and 
splendor,  and  an  equal  persuasiveness  as  a  preacher. 
But  what  is  most  rare,  his  sermons,  though  they  gained 
much  by  delivery,  lose  little  in  reading,  for  those  who 
never  heard  them.  They  are  admirably  adapted  to  the 
pulpit,  none  more  so ;  but  just  as  wonderfully  suited  to 
the  library  and  to  solitary  perusal.  I  am  not  extrava- 
gant or  alone  in  this  opinion.  I  know  that  so  compe- 
tent a  critic  as  James  Martineau  holds  them  in  equal 
admiration. 

"  I  shall  make  no  excuse  for  dwelling  so  long  upon 
Orville  Dewey's  genius  as  a  preacher.  No  plainer 
duty  exists  than  to  commend  his  example  to  the  study 
and  imitation  of  our  own  preachers ;  and  no  exaltation 
that  the  Church  of  the  Messiah  will  ever  attain  can  in 
any  probability  equal  that  which  will  always  be  given  to 
it  as  the  seat  of  Dr.  Dewey's  thirteen  years'  ministry  in 
the  city  of  New  York.  Of  the  tenderness,  modesty, 
truthfulness,  devotion,  and  spotiess  purity  of  his  life  and 
character,  it  is  too  soon  to  utter  all  that  my  heart  and 
knowledge  prompt  me  to  say.  But,  when  expression 
shall  finally  be  allowed  to  the  testimony  which  cannot 
very  long  be  denied  fi'ee  utterance,  it  will  fully  appear 
that  only  a  man  whose  soul  was  haunted  by  God's  spirit 
from  early  youth  to  extreme  old  age  could  have  pro- 
duced the  works  that  stand  in  his  name.  The  man  is 
greater  than  his  works." 


364  Letters. 

In  the  August  following  my  father's  death,  an 
appropriate  service  was  held  in  his  memory  at  the 
old  Congregational  Church  in  his  native  village. 
It  was  the  church  of  his  childhood,  from  whose 
galleries  he  had  looked  down  with  childish  pity 
upon  the  sad-browed  communicants ;  ^  it  was  the 
church  to  which  he  had  joined  himself  in  the  re- 
ligious fervor  of  his  youth ;  from  it  he  had  been 
thrust  out  as  a  heretic,  and  for  years  was  not  per- 
mitted to  speak  within  its  walls,  the  first  time  being 
in  1876,  when  the  town  celebrated  the  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  Resolution  that  had  marked  its 
Revolutionary  ardor,  and  called  upon  him,  as  one 
of  its  most  distinguished  citizens,  to  preach  upon 
the  occasion;  and  now  the  old  church  opened 
wide  its  doors  in  affectionate  respect  to  his 
memory,  and  his  mourning  townspeople  met  to 
honor  the  man  they  had  learned  to  love,  if  not  to 
follow. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer  day,  full  of  calm  and 
sunny  sweetness.  The  earlier  harvests  had  been 
gathered  in,  and  the  beautiful  valley  lay  in  perfect 
rest,  — 

"  Like  a  full  heart,  having  prayed." 

Taghkonic  brooded  above  it  in  gentle  majesty, 
and  the  scarce  seen  river  wound  its  quiet  course 
among  the  meadows.  No  touch  of  drought  or 
decay  had  yet  passed  upon  the  luxuriant  foliage ; 
but  the  autumnal  flowers  were  already  glowing 

1  See  p.  16. 


Letters.  365 

in  the  fields  and  on  the  waysides,  and,  mingled 
with  ferns  and  ripened  grain,  were  heaped  in  rich 
profusion  by  the  loving  hands  of  young  girls  to 
adorn  the  church.  It  was  Sunday,  and  people 
and  friends  came  from  far  and  near,  till  the  build- 
ing was  filled ;  and  in  the  pervading  atmosphere  of 
tender  respect  and  sympathy,  the  warm-hearted 
words  spoken  from  the  pulpit  seemed  like  the 
utterance  of  the  common  feeling.  The  choir 
sang,  with  much  expression,  one  of  my  father's 
favorite  hymns,  — 

"  When,  as  returns  this  solemn  day ; " 

and  the  prayer,  from  Dr.  Eddy,  the  pastor  of  the  . 
church,  was  a  true  uplifting  of  hearts  to  the  Father 
of  all.  The  fervent  and  touching  discourse  which 
followed,  by  Rev.  Robert  Collyer,  minister  of  my 
father's  old  parish,  the  Church  of  the  Messiah,  in 
New  York,  recalled  the  early  days  of  Dr.  Dewey's 
life,  and  the  influences  from  home  and  from  nature 
that  had  borne  upon  his  character,  and  described 
the  man  and  his  work  in  terms  of  warm  and  not 
indiscriminate  eulogy.  The  speaker's  brow  light- 
ened, and  his  cheek  glowed  with  the  strength  of 
his  own  feeling,  and  among  his  listeners  there 
was  an  answering  thrill  of  gratitude  and  of  aspi- 
ration. 

Dr.  Powers,  an  Episcopal  clergyman,  then  read 
a  short  and  graceful  original  poem,  and  some  cor- 
dial and  earnest  words  were  said  by  the  two 
Orthodox  ministers  present.    Another  hymn  was 


366  Letters. 

sung  by  the  whole  congregation ;  and  thus  fitly 
closed  the  simple  and  reverent  service,  typical 
throughout  of  the  kindly  human  brotherhood 
which,  notwithstanding  inevitable  differences  of 
opinion,  binds  together  hearts  that  throb  with 
one  common  need,  that  rest  upon  one  Eternal 
Love  and  Wisdom. 

So  would  my  father  have  wished  it.     So  may 
it  be  more  and  more ! 


University  Press,  Cambridge :  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


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